Soluble
by Pheleon
Summary: n. The quantity of a substance that can dissolve in a particular solvent. Gilbert wonders how long it will be before he falls; before he breaks his promise and Ivan gets to him, and he gives in to the darkness reaching through his heart.
1. A Tense Farewell

**Soluble Chapter One: A Tense Farewell**

"_To think I might not see those eyes_

_Makes it so hard not to cry_

_And as we say our long goodbyes_

_I nearly do."_

_- Run, Snow Patrol_

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"_Brother…_" The word escaped Ludwig's mouth as he stared across the field. His hands were still held firmly – though not painfully – behind his back by Alfred. Arthur, standing just beside him, had one hand on his shoulder – Ludwig wasn't sure if it was meant to be restraining or sympathetic. It was too light to be the former, and he refused to accept the latter. He didn't need sympathy. He could see Francis out of the corner of his eyes; the normally boisterous, flamboyant nation was standing by quietly. His head was bowed slightly, hair shadowing his face. Like most of the men standing with Ludwig, his eyes were trained firmly on the ground.

Standing across from them, a faint smile on his face, was Ivan. The huge nation was looking none the worse for wear for all that he had just gone through the same war the rest of them had. By contrast, the slight, pale man standing just in front of him was a wreck.

It was this man that Ludwig's eyes were fixed on with a burning determination, trying to make him raise his head by sheer, silent willpower alone. The silence surrounding all of them was so thick that Ludwig was finding it difficult to breathe – though that might have been the bandages that he had wrapped around his ribs with such ferocity this morning.

"Do we –" The words sounded like a shotgun, so long had the silence remained unbroken, and Germany wasn't the only one who flinched. He felt Alfred's grip tighten slightly.

"Yes, Francis." Arthur's voice was tight, though with what Ludwig couldn't tell. "There isn't another way."

Those words broke the paralysis that had seized Ludwig at the beginning of the gathering. "There _is_ another way!" he snarled, twisting in Alfred's grasp with a sudden burst of energy. "You don't _have_ to give him to that fucking Russian _psychopath_!"

America's grip tightened like a vise, though the younger nation said nothing. He hadn't spoken much since they had decided. There was, however, little need for the additional force – the sudden movement had upset the balance of pain in Ludwig's body and his ability to ignore it. The German nation let out a hissing breath, sweat beading on his forehead. He sagged, and then only the two grips that Alfred and Arthur had on him were holding him up.

But his outburst had, at long last, procured a reaction from the man standing silently with Russia. He lifted his head slowly, and stared silently at Ludwig for a long moment. Bandages covered much of his face, including one of his brilliant red eyes. They made his already pale skin even more washed out. A slightly pained smile appeared on Prussia's face as he regarded his younger brother across the distance that now separated them.

"Calm… down, West," Gilbert said in a raspy, halting voice. He had bandages around his neck as well – and Germany knew for a fact that they continued down under his tattered uniform. He had patched his brother up the best he could – and the way that Gilbert was standing there made Ludwig think that perhaps the bandages were the only thing really holding him together. "Worrying about… me… is so… not awesome." The smile widened a bit, despite the flash of pain in Gilbert's visible eye.

"Brother, you can't let them just –" Germany's words sputtered to a half as Prussia raised on hand – and this, too, was wrapped in white bandages. Only the tips of his fingers were visible, like a wordless accusation. Ludwig knew that wound had been his fault – a desperate attempt by Prussia to spare him from the blade of an enemy soldier had resulted in the older nation catching the weapon with his hand. His gloves hadn't stood a chance. Germany could still see the blood, if he closed his eyes and concentrated.

"I… can, West," Prussia said, a flare of his usual fire back. "I'm… the older brother. I can do… whatever the hell… I want." His head tilted to the side, glancing back at the Russian behind him from under his white bangs. "Besides… I've had him… on my back for years… I'll be fine."

But Ludwig didn't miss the flash of terror in his brother's eyes – and he knew that none of the other nations had either. Prussia hated Ivan with a passion – and that hate was eclipsed only by the same fear that all of the nations held for him. Only Ludwig knew the depths that it truly reached to. After all, Gilbert's words were true – he had been geographically close to Russia for much longer than most all of them. He knew better than most just what Ivan was capable of.

"Da. It will be nice to have you around my house." Russia spoke for the first time, reaching out a hand and placing it on Gilbert's shoulder in a friendly manner.

"Ivan… if you hurt him," Ludwig hissed, eyes like chips of ice, "If you touch a hair on his head, no place in your frozen wasteland will be far enough for you to run when I come looking for you. And when I get my hands on you –"

"The divide will stand." Russia smiled a little wider. "And you will throw yourself uselessly against it until your bones break and the wire peels the flesh from your bones." Those dead violet eyes glittered, and deliberately, he raised a hand to ruffle Gilbert's ragged white hair. "I am not afraid of you, Germany. Your power it broken, and your country is defeated a second time. Look at you. You can barely stand."

"_You_ –" Ludwig's words degenerated into a growl of wordless rage.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but the words died as he was interrupted by a rasping, sandpapery sound. All of the m jumped, except Russia, and stared at Gilbert. The dissolved nation was laughing, despite the pain it was evidently causing him.

"If… you two…. Are going to have… a pissing contest over me… can you at least wait… until I'm not standing right here?" For one moment, it was almost as if they weren't standing here tensely; as if Gilbert wasn't struggling to exert the energy to simply _stand_ there without falling over. Despite his hatred of the northern nation, he was glad that Russia had a hand on his shoulder – that firm, if painful grip was keeping him on his feet right now.

"Gil, I –" Ludwig was conscious of England fidgeting uncomfortably beside him as he spoke. The hand dropped off of his shoulder.

"You'll see me again." The words were soft, but for a moment Prussia's face crinkled with mischief, and he managed to speak without pauses for breath. "Someone needs to make sure you have fun sometimes – and who better than the awesome me? You owe me beer when I get back, West. I want to get so drunk that I forget my own name."

Ludwig's smile was just as painful as the Prussian's, though for different reasons. "You can drink whatever the hell you want when you get back, East," he said, voice rough with emotion. "I'll even pay for it."

"Then you'd better… pull your people up… off the ground," Gilbert said firmly, "Because I plan… on driving you into another… depression just to pay for… it all." He laughed again. It didn't last long, as the action upset the tenacious balance within his body, and the pale nation was suddenly bent almost double, coughing, cheeks turning red as he struggled for air that wouldn't come.

"_Brother!"_ Ludwig found some crumb of strength in his battered frame, and surged forward. The sudden spurt of adrenaline caught Alfred by surprise, and the young man let go of him out of sheer surprise. England let out a startled shout, but he was too slow to jump forward and grab Germany as he lunged past.

Ludwig made it to his brother just as the strength in Prussia's legs left him and he collapsed. In his arms, Germany realized just how _light_ Gilbert was – he was little more than skin and bones, and it was like cradling a small child. He was barely conscious of the dark shadow that Russia, who had not moved, was casting over them.

"Gil…" There was a flood of emotion in the nickname that Ludwig whispered into the wild white hair; emotion that he couldn't express in any other way.

"Get… strong again… West," Gilbert murmured into his collar, the arms that were around Germany's shoulders tightening weakly. "Fix… yourself… before you start… worrying about me."

"I won't forget you, brother." The words were a fierce declaration. "I'll come get you."

"Don't be… silly…" Prussia muttered. "I'm not… even a nation…anymore. And Ivan… was right. The wire… the barrier… still stands."

"Fuck the barrier," Ludwig hissed, drawing his older brother into a bone crushing hug that made the Prussian gasp in pain. "It's just wire… it doesn't mean anything to us." Through the flyaway white hair, Germany could see Ivan watching them with that frighteningly empty expression – and then those violet eyes flickered to look behind the two brothers. A tiny crease appeared in his brow, and Germany had no time to consider what it might mean before the Russian was moving with a swiftness that did not match his size.

But it was not the motion that Ludwig had been expecting. Rather than trying to wrench the two brothers apart, Ivan moved past them – in front of them. Blocking England and America from grabbing Germany away. He didn't dare let go of Gilbert to see what was happening, but he could hear perfectly.

"You will leave them," Ivan was saying in that childish voice of his – so innocent, yet so threatening.

"Get out of the way, Russia," England replied shortly, though Germany could hear the slight tremor in his voice. He felt Gilbert clutch at him tighter, and buried his nose in his brother's hair, as if he could take Prussia and pull him into himself, make them one; spare him the pain and terror that he was feeling right now. As if by the physical contact alone, he could imprint Gilbert's memory on himself, so that the spunky, sometimes downright annoying man would not fade from his memory.

"You will let them share this." He caught the telltale sound of Ivan's voice dropping; becoming deeper and more menacing. Ludwig didn't want to think about why the Russian was suddenly taking their side on this matter.

"I… have to go… West…" Gilbert's voice was stronger now, and he pulled away from the tight embrace. He put his hands on Germany's shoulders, staring with his visible red eye into his brother's pair of blue, trying to communicate everything he was thinking in a wordless look. His fingers tightened, though Germany wasn't sure if that was a reaction to pain or something else.

"Germany…" America's voice this time, a soft warning in it, though it was rather a nicer rebuke than he had expected. Of course, America had his own younger brother, and likely knew _exactly_ what was running through Ludwig's mind at this moment.

"Are you ready to leave, Gil?" Ivan, this time, turning to look over his shoulder. The innocent voice and expression was back – no sign that he had just been angry with England.

"Don't call me that." Gilbert's voice was stronger now, and his eye narrowed in a glare at the Russian. "Don't _ever _call… me that."

Ivan shrugged, but didn't respond. Instead, he moved to the side and gave England an abrupt nod.

Arthur moved forward, and put a hand on Germany's shoulder, pushing Prussia's off in the process. "Let him go, Ludwig," he said, voice low and warning. "You've said your goodbyes. Let's not make this any more difficult than it needs to be."

Germany looked back at his older brother, feeling for a moment like a lost child again, not sure what to do or what to say.

Prussia nodded slowly, and let his other hand drop off of Ludwig's shoulder. "Go, West." His smile was back. "Though… I suppose I'm not… you're…" He hesitated for a moment, and then reached up to his throat. Gilbert felt his fingers close around the metal cross that he wore around his neck – the one that mirrored Ludwig's. The grip tightened, and then he pulled. The black fabric that kept it tied under his collar came undone faster than he had expected, the frayed edges unraveling with the tug. Gilbert considered the metal symbol in his hand for only a short moment, before grabbing for Ludwig's hand, which was limp with surprise.

"Here," he whispered roughly, willing himself not to cry. He wasn't _allowed_ to cry. Gilbert let his features scrunch up into his usual confident smirk, though it pained the bandaged portion of his face to do so. "You're all… of Germany now, West." He closed Ludwig's fingers over the metal object that was probably older than he was. "Take care of it."

"Gil, you can't give this –" Germany was hardly resisting Arthur's insistent tugging on his shoulder. "I can't take this –"

"Yes you can," Gilbert replied, even as Ivan came to stand beside him, one firm hand on his shoulder to steer him in the correct direction – away from his brother, and the smoking ruins of his home. "It's yours now… Germany."

And then Ivan's hand became more forceful, the Russian having expended his yearly allotment of charity and becoming impatient with the waiting. Gilbert didn't resist – he knew Ivan would probably happily drag him – and followed the larger nation, trailing in his wake like a second, paler shadow. He glanced back over his shoulder once, raising a hand again in a farewell wave.

Ludwig stared after the retreating shape of his brother long after he could barely make out the two men. He was aware that England hadn't bothered trying to force him to move; that America had backed off, standing awkwardly to the side. Surprisingly, it was Francis who came to stand beside the German in the suddenly silent clearing. Then again, perhaps it was not so surprising – France and his brother had always been close. The only one missing from their chaos causing trio was Spain, who hadn't been able to bring himself to come.

"We'll get him back," Francis said firmly, in a no-nonsense voice. "I won't leave him with Braginski." He placed a hand on Ludwig's shoulder and squeezed it tightly, and the German couldn't find the energy to shrug it off.

And with that, Francis turned on one heel and left. His steps were short and clipped, and had they been on stone and not grass, they would have sounded angry. Then it was just the three nations left in the field – though Germany got the sense America was staying only to help England if he needed it, not out of any particular desire to be there.

"Ludwig… it's time to go home." Arthur was at his side now, looking at him with guarded green eyes, as if expecting Germany to lash out.

Truth be told, he _wanted _to. He sorely wanted to punch something… but that wouldn't solve anything. That wouldn't save his people. It wouldn't bring Gilbert back. "Yes," he whispered hoarsely, eyes still fixed on that last point on the horizon where he had seen Gilbert disappear. "Home."

He allowed England and America to gently steer him from the clearing, back in the direction of his house. His empty, echoing house that would no longer see the visits of a man with too large an ego for his slight body, a man who could drink the entire contents of his beer cellar and still be looking for more. Ludwig uncurled his fingers, looking at the cross that Gilbert had given him. There was a slash in the metal, from a blade or a dodged bullet, Germany wasn't sure. It cut the metal nearly in half, keeping with the symmetry.

_You're all of Germany now._

"But I don't know what to do…" the words were inaudible, but neither Alfred or Arthur pressed him to repeat himself as they left the clearing behind, as grass turned to rough gravel and pavement. "I need you, East…"

His hand clenched spasmodically on the cross, the sharp points digging through his gloves and into his skin. Ludwig didn't notice his hand start to bleed – he merely clutched the symbol tighter, oblivious to the pain it was causing him.

_I can't protect you, Gil… _

Ludwig was not a religious man – he hadn't ever been, even when Gilbert had been going through a phase of it. But now, he felt his lips moving through some silent prayer – to someone, to _anyone_ who would listen to a disgraced nation incapable of protecting even his own brother.

_ Hold out, East. I'll come and find you._

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_**A/N: **So, I just got into Hetalia - well, ok, I got into Hetalia over a month ago, and that's when I started writing this thing too. I just haven't posted it until now. ^^; Anyway, I can't promise entirely regular updates, seeing as how packed my summer schedule is turning out to be, but I certainly won't leave you hanging for months on end with no updates._

_Please review, if you'd read! :D_


	2. Arguing in Sub Zero Temperatures

**Soluble Chapter Two: Arguing in Sub Zero Temperatures**

"_I used to rule the world_

_Seas would rise when I gave the word_

_Now in the morning I sleep alone_

_Sweep the streets I used to own"_

_- Viva la Vida, Coldplay_

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Later, he would be unable to recall much of the long trek that he and Ivan had made, almost entirely in silence. Gilbert wasn't sure when everything started to blur into one seamless mix of sickening, swirling colours, and he didn't want to know. Ivan said nothing – at some point during the walk, the Russian had pushed him to the front, and was using none too gentle a hand to propel the Prussian forward whenever he slowed. When he stumbled, Ivan merely waited behind him until he regained his balance, and then that hand was back – ready to shove Gilbert forward if he hesitated too long.

His world narrowed to the ground just under his worn-out boots. His mind began to wander, if only to distract himself from the pain that the forced physical activity was causing his already battered frame. He remembered when West had shown up – shown up to tell him that he was no longer a nation, that he had been _dissolved_ without even being present for the meeting…

_He had been battle weary; barely managing to stagger to his house on his own two legs, let alone take notice of what else was going on in the world. All he knew was that they had lost. _He_ had lost, and he wasn't supposed to lose battles. The wounds of the war showed clearly on his frame; his uniform was ragged and ripped, old blood and new staining it. A horrible gash along his ribs was visible through the ruined fabric. _

_Gilbert hadn't been able to find the strength to bandage it. He had made it to the living room, with its antique furniture and beautiful wall hangings. He had noticed, with a sort of uncaring emptiness, the way that the walls seemed to be sagging, the wood suddenly looking old. The deep crack running up the face of the stone fireplace that had withstood much worse. At the time, he hadn't considered it worth noting – it took all of his energy to simply collapse on the couch, letting darkness take him._

_The fabric had absorbed blood surprisingly well._

_The fever caught him only hours after getting home, and after that, Gilbert hadn't had the energy to notice what was happening to his house. His forehead burned, but he couldn't get relief. The constantly present yellow bird had done its best to help him, but even it could only carry so much, being so small. Gilbert hadn't noticed his house collapsing – he had been too wrapped up in fever-nightmares of the past to hear the entire left wing collapse in a pile of groaning timbers. He was too far gone to notice the ceiling in the room he had lain in for the past week was starting to develop cracks._

_It had, however, been bearable. Physical pain was nothing new to him, and Gilbert knew, somewhere in his fever twisted mind, that he would pull through this – he was too awesome to not survive. His empire would endure another day, another war. He was heedless of the sheer volume of blood that had soaked into the tan fabric of the couch, the gauntness of his cheeks; the infection that had settled on his untreated wounds. Like always, he had assumed that his status as a nation would ensure that he would heal, with only a few scars to show for it. _

"Stupid…" Gilbert murmured softly aloud, shivering slightly. The air had gotten colder in the time he had spaced out.

"Don't stop walking." It was more than just a curt order, Gilbert realized – even in the short time that he had paused; his body had started shivering harder. "I don't want you to freeze to death before we get home."

"That makes one of us," Prussia muttered rebelliously under his breath, watching it cloud in front of him.

"It's the one of us whose opinion actually matters," Ivan said quite cheerfully, "So keep moving." A howling gust of wind and snow swirled by, as if to emphasize the Russian's words. Despite himself, Gilbert let out a low gasp, eyes narrowed against the sudden spray of snow.

With what he hoped was an icy glare over his shoulder at Ivan; Gilbert tucked his ungloved hands under his armpits and moved forward. At least, that was the idea – a firm hand on his shoulder stopped his motion, jerking him painfully backward and nearly making him fall down.

"What _now_?" Prussia snarled, rounding to glare at Russia, momentarily forgetting just who he was addressing. "You wanted me to keep moving!"

"You aren't dressed for the weather." Russia pointed this out like it was some sort of obscure revelation, as if Gilbert wasn't already aware of the fact.

"Have a fucking cookie," Prussia growled, struggling to turn away from Ivan's grip. "It took you this long to notice."

He missed the flash of anger in Ivan's violet eyes. The Russian reached out, lightening fast, one massive hand curling around Prussia's windpipe. With little effort, Ivan hauled the smaller man up to his eyelevel, not phased by Gilbert's thrashing.

"Put… me… _down_…!" Gilbert's voice was faint in the howling wind.

"We are going to make something very clear right now," Ivan growled, none of the childlike innocence in his face. When Prussia ignored him, the Russian merely shook him like a toy. "You are alive only by _my_ desire, Beilschmidt."

"Keep… dreaming…" Gilbert hissed, despite all of the truth in Russia's statement, "You'll _never_ –" His words were stalled as something cold and metallic pressed itself against the side of his head. Almost instantly, Gilbert stopped thrashing. He knew Ivan carried that damn pipe around, but he hadn't seen it at the gathering, and had assumed that the Russian had chosen to leave it behind…

"You are _mine_, Gilbert," Russia said flatly, taping the metal object against Prussia's temple. "No one will come help you out here. You will do what I say, or you will suffer the consequences, da?" His grip on Gilbert's neck tightened.

The Prussian couldn't have answered if he had wanted to. The edges of his vision had turned curiously fuzzy and black; his lungs cried for air that would not come. The half healed wounds on his neck burned, the Russian's rough grip ruining what scabbing had occurred.

"I'm glad we understand one another," Ivan said, smiling again. The Russian dropped Gilbert as he spoke, and the slight man crumpled at his feet, coughing violently. "Get up – I want to be home before it gets dark."

"_You_…" Gilbert hissed, unconscious of the blood that was now staining the bandages around his neck. Being dumped in the snow had robbed him of that last bit of core warmth, and now his limbs were shaking so badly he couldn't stand.

"I said get up." The tone of voice didn't' change, but Gilbert wasn't so far gone that he didn't hear the warning.

"What does… it look… like I'm trying to do?" Prussia scrabbled weakly in the snow, struggling to find strength in his tired legs to stand. It was, if he were to be honest with himself, a losing battle. He paused, panting; he had managed to get to his knees.

The metal pipe prodded him sharply in the back; a wordless threat. Ivan was not known for his patience. Gritting his teeth, Gilbert struggled to get to his feet. One moment stretched into an eternity, and then the ground shot away from him. It took Prussia a moment to realize that he was standing. He had a few seconds to enjoy the feeling, before his legs, abused beyond their limit, simply gave out from under him. Snow rushed up to meet his face – when had it gotten that deep on the ground? – and Gilbert shuddered as the white powder enveloped him. He was beyond feeling the temperature now, his skin icy. Prussia closed his good eye, wondering whether it was even worth trying to struggle for breath.

Suddenly the ground was falling away from him. Ivan's hands were clamped around his shoulders, hauling him up out of the snow.

"You're not going to last," the Russian was muttering to himself, looking at Gilbert. The albino stared back at him fuzzily. Ivan sighed, and in one swift motion, had pulled Prussia entirely off of his feet.

It took Gilbert a moment to realize why he was suddenly warmer. Russia looked down at him with a face devoid of emotion. Prussia's expression creased into a scowl as he realized that the massive nation was _carrying_ him.

"Put… me… down…" he mumbled half-heartedly. The Russian _was_ warm, after all. His shivers were already slowing.

"No," Ivan replied simply, looking up and continuing to walk. His boots crunched loudly over the snow. Prussia's weight did not appear to be a hindrance to him in the slightest.

This was humiliating. Prussia could feel his cheeks burning, though he wasn't entirely sure if that was out of shame or if it was due to fever. Wind scraped chilly fingers across his face; the area under the bandages burned with pain. Instinctively, Gilbert turned his face into Ivan's shoulder, his scarf.

"This never happened," he said into Russia's coat. He was past denying that he wasn't capable of walking under his own power. His only answer, however, was the wind and the crunch of snow as Ivan kept up his measured steps. _What does it matter anyway,_ a small part of him asked. _I'm not even a nation anymore. What use is salvaging my pride when I don't have anything to be proud of? _Prussia allowed his tense frame to curl closer to the warm Russian, and willingly let the darkness consume him.

_It had been like that when someone had finally taken it into their heads to see if he was still alive. He was, of course, though it was stretching the term quite a bit. His wounds had stopped bleeding, at least, but they were not healing. He had been delirious for the past week; the few hours where he was consciously aware of his surroundings, he had been too exhausted to get up._

_ The blood would never wash out of the couch. _

_ Ludwig had been the one to come find him. Of course, West had been expecting to find his older brother either sulking, drunk out of his mind, or both. Not barely clinging to life, unaware of the crumbling ruin that his house had become around him._

_ "Brother!" He remembered the voice breaking through his fever dreams. It had been so long since he had heard any voice but his own. Gilbert hadn't recognized it at first – normally, his brother's voice was controlled and level; his exclamation had been bordering on panic._

_ It had taken what seemed like a year to crack open one eye. The other was gummed shut with dried blood – in any case, the slash running down it was not much incentive for Gilbert to try and open it. _

_ "West?" His voice had been whispery, throat worn raw from screaming. It was barely audible in the desolate silence that had consumed his house. "Is… that you…?" He wasn't sure what was real and what was his imagination anymore._

_ "What _happened_ – why didn't you ask for help?" He could tell that Ludwig was torn between yelling at him and trying to soothe him._

_ "They… did it… didn't they?" Gilbert could feel his grip on consciousness slipping, but for the first time he fought the pull of black oblivion._

_ "Did what?" Ludwig tried to stand, tried to dismiss what his brother was saying, but Gilbert reached out a hand that shook violently with the effort, and placed it over the younger man's fingers. He didn't notice Ludwig flinch – both with the heat that was rising off of Gilbert's wasted skin, and with guilt._

_ "Did they… think I wouldn't… notice?" Gilbert panted wildly for breath, his mouth dry and cracked. A demented smile spread across his face, and a trickle of blood ran down from a split in the center of his lip. "That… I wouldn't… feel…"_

_ "Gil, I – this is my fault," Ludwig said, sitting back down bonelessly, looking at his brother with such a look of despair that Gilbert almost closed his eye again. "I tried to stop them, but – they thought it was – I can't – I didn't – you –" _

_ And then he was crying, silently, in the way that he always had, but _crying_ just the same, and it wrenched somewhere inside of Gilbert, the one place that didn't already hurt. The ex-nation raised the same trembling hand to Ludwig's face. The tears were cold on his skin, so high was his temperature. But despite that, there was something that Prussia had to say, something to comfort this overgrown, bandaged child in front of him._

_ "It's…not… your fault," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "Stop… crying… I'll be… fine." It was a pretty lie. Gilbert knew that he was far from fine. His physical wounds were not healing; his body was consuming itself in an attempt to rid itself of infection. But worse than that was the gaping sense of despair that had fallen over him when his tie to his people had been severed. Even feeling their pain – which multiplied his own – had been better. It had been like a sturdy cord he had been able to depend on all of his existence had been cut – and the whiplash had caught him straight across the face. But for his brother – for his stupid little brother who should know better than to _cry_ over something like this – he would put on a brave face. Neither of them believed the lie, but it was easier to pretend. _

"_Stop… crying… West," Gilbert mumbled, the world blurring strangely. A great leaden heaviness had settled around his limbs, and he was finding it difficult to keep his hand from dropping off of Ludwig's cheek. "I'm… not… worth… crying over." Was this what he had been waiting for, why he had managed to stay alive these past two weeks, despite all logic? Had he really been clinging to life just to see his younger brother one last time? It certainly felt like it. _

_And suddenly he was tired, so tired. Even keeping his one eye open was difficult, and he let his hand drop. It whacked off of Ludwig's knee with a lifeless motion, dangling over the couch like some discarded toy. Gilbert didn't bother trying to move it, despite the fact that the motion had ripped open the bullet wound there. He could feel his eye closing, and this time he didn't try and resist._

"No!_ Gil, you can't disappear!" Germany was grabbing at his shoulders, but there was no reaction. The only sign of life from the albino was the sliver of red under his eyelashes; the red that was overly bright with pain and fever. _

"_Don't… be stupid… West…" The corner of his mouth twitched in a parody of a smile. "I'm… too… awesome… to dis…sa..." His words trailed off, and with a rattling sigh of finality, Gilbert let his eyes close, deaf to his brother's frantic pleas._

Gilbert had been half dozing, his body wishing to sleep, but his mind far too active to slip into pleasant oblivion. The sudden change in both light and pace was what pulled him out of his foggy half-dreams, his good eye flickering open warily. It had grown dark while Russia had carried him over the snow, hardly seeming to notice the cold wind. But now they were standing in a pool of warm yellow light, and there was a low, monotonous sound in the background.

It took Prussia a few moments to gather enough wits to realize that they were standing on the front steps of a massive house, and that the pounding sound was Ivan kicking the door with his heavy boot. The Russian could not, after all, open the door when both of his arms were full of the other nation. There was a scraping sound, and the door opened a crack.

"I'm sorry, but visitors aren't welcome –" The soft voice was cut off as Ivan stuck the toe of his boot into the opening, wedging it there.

"It's cold out here, Toris," Russia said quietly, inching closer to the warmth that was leaking out of the open door. Almost instantly, the door opened all the way, the man behind it practically throwing himself at it in an effort to get it open. Russia didn't have a particularly kind disposition on a normal day, and it only worsened when he was cold.

"Sorry, Mr. Braginski, I – we weren't expecting you home so soon." Lithuania stood to the side as the massive nation stepped inside, banging the snow off of his boots. His wide brown eyes fixed on the snow-covered figure in the Russian's arms; whoever it was, they looked terribly small and fragile.

"It went faster than expected, da. Tell one of the others to put tea on – General Winter isn't happy with me, or so it seems." The violet eyes flickered to the still open door, and Toris jumped to shut it.

"Of course," he said breathlessly, "I'll just go put the kettle –"

"I said one of the others," Russia said patiently, as if he was talking to a small child. "_You_ are going to help me while they do that. Get Latvia to do it – I like the way he makes it."

Lithuania nodded, and darted off down the hallway a way, turning a corner. He and the other two Baltic nations – Estonia and Latvia – had been looking forward to a night together, without any of Russia's head games to keep them on edge. While a night in the massive house wasn't exactly _pleasant_ no matter who was home, it would have been nice.

"Who was it?" Estonia was lounging back on one of the couches, a book dangling from his fingers. The fire was roaring in the grate, and for a moment Toris felt like he could pretend that this was all normal; that they were here of their own volition.

"It's Ivan," he replied quietly. Latvia looked up with the usual expression he wore whenever anyone brought up the Russian in his presence – or when said Russian was actually _in_ his presence. "I'm surprised you two didn't hear him come in… he's got someone with him, and I'm not sure who, but he wants my help." The nation glanced at Latvia, who was sitting curled by the table, building a house with a deck of cards that he had managed to find somewhere. "He wants you to make tea."

There was no need to clarify the order – Latvia jumped up so quickly that he upset the creation he had spent the better part of the night working on. The paper rectangles fluttered to the floor in a cloud. Estonia looked up, and nodded – he would tidy up, seeing as Ivan apparently didn't want anything from him. Lithuania offered him a small smile, before turning out of the room and back into the hallway. Russia was no longer standing there – the melting snow on the floor gave Toris a watery path to follow, up the winding stairs, down the long and empty hallway, to the room at the end of the house.

He entered the room just in time to see Russia drop his burden onto the bed before straightening, his back cracking with an unpleasant sound. Though Toris was sure he hadn't made any sounds, Ivan turned around at that exact moment, a small smile in place.

"He's heavier than he looks, especially when you have to carry him halfway home." The Russian was methodically taking off his gloves, tossing them onto the bare stand by the bed.

"I – I'm sure," Toris said; and though he wanted to know who was lying there, he didn't dare take his eyes off of Ivan as the other moved around the room, flicking on lights. There was only one window in this room, and it was small and high off the ground – large windows let the heat escape faster.

"I'm going to get bandages," Russia said, rather unexpectedly – usually he made the others run around madly for the things he wanted. "You stay here and make sure he doesn't die in the next five minutes, da?"

"Of course," Lithuania mumbled as the massive man swept past. He waited a moment, listening to the other clump off down the hallway, and then moved closer to the bed. He wasn't sure what he was expecting – the things Russia dragged home were never in very good shape, and if there was imminent danger of this one _dying_ in the next few minutes…

It wasn't who he had been expecting, that was for sure. Perhaps if he had paid more attention to what had been going on in Russia's office, he wouldn't have been surprised – then again, the northern nation rarely deigned to actually _informing_ any of them what he was doing. Toris had the suspicion that the other nation liked keeping all of them in the dark.

"Stop… staring… you idiot. It feels like… you're boring… holes… in me. And I have… quite enough of… those, thanks."

The voice nearly had the Baltic nation jumping out of his skin. He hadn't realized that Prussia was even conscious. He covered the last few steps between him and the edge of the bed; while he and Gilbert had never been on good terms in the past; it was still strange to see the normally enthusiastic and _loud_ nation lying there, shivering.

"What happened to you?" There was something close to wonder in Toris's voice, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Prussia had always been a tenacious fighter – he rarely lost, and when he did, he was almost instantly plotting his comeback.

"Didn't _he_… tell you?" A sickening smile flashed across the un-bandaged part of his face, and Prussia winced.

"Tell me what?" Toris managed to hide the confused look – even lying there, bandaged beyond almost all recognition, Prussia was managing to lord something over him. It was irritating, in a way only the albino man could possibly be.

Prussia laughed softly – rather, his body shook so suddenly that for a moment Toris feared that the other was having some sort of fit. "No… no, I suppose he… wouldn't tell… his underlings… anything." Pain creased his features again. "You'll be… happy… I expect. You and I… always _were_… fighting." A distant look came into his eye for a moment.

"Just tell me what you're talking about, Prussia," Lithuania hissed, glancing over his shoulder. He hadn't heard Russia clomping back yet, but the huge nation had shown a frightening potential for appearing places without ever making a sound, despite his size.

"Don't… call me that," Gilbert said, eye shutting as if he didn't want to see anything anymore. "It's… Gilbert… now. Just Gilbert."

Horrible realization struck Toris as he stared down at his once-enemy in shock, eyes wide. They had _dissolved_ him. Prussia was _gone_… and this was all that was left. That explained why the other nation – _ex-nation_, his mind supplied sadly – was so badly injured; he didn't even have the thin protection of status anymore. That must have been what the meeting that Russia had gone to had been about – and it would also explain why Felkis had been even more cheerful than usual.

"Da." The voice from the doorway, sudden in the ensuing silence of Gilbert's statement, made Lithuania jump and whirl around. There, with his trademark innocent – not to mention terrifying – smile in place was Russia, his arms full of bandages. A bottle of clear liquid dangled from his fingers, the contents sloshing against the sides. Toris swallowed hard, and stepped a few paces away from the bed.

"Gilbert is no longer a nation; Prussia has been chopped into pieces and given to others," Ivan said, as if the thought gave him pleasure. _It probably does_, Toris thought, squirming inside. "But I got the biggest chunk of it, so Gilbert is going to be living with us from now on." There was silence in the room as Ivan stepped further inside, dropping the bandages and the vodka without much ceremony on the bed next to the injured man. "It's going to be such fun!"

Though they didn't know it, both Toris and Gilbert were thinking identical thoughts; whatever the psychopathic Russian considered _fun_, they most certainly did _not_ want to be a part of it. And both of them had the same bitter realization a moment later, one that left a sour taste on the tongue –

Neither of them had much choice in the matter.

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_**A/N: **Alright, I updated again. =3 Most of the time, it will not be on a once-a-week basis, but this is out for a special reason. Fairy Struck is getting her wisdom teeth yanked out today, so I figured that a new chapter might cheer her up. Not that this is a particularly cheery fanfiction, but there you go._

_I appreciate the feedback I've been getting! :D_

_If you've read, please review!_


	3. A Hairline Fracture

**Soluble Chapter Three: A Hairline Fracture**

"_And I never once heard you complain_

_And you said,_

_Don't crack, because you might not make it back."_

_- Down, Down, Down to Mephisto's Café, Streetlight Manifesto_

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"Undress him," Ivan ordered, rummaging through the armful of things he had brought back with him. Toris made no move to do so, staring at the Russian was something approaching astonishment. Ivan didn't _help_ people – he was the one who smashed them apart in the first place. He _didn't_ collect bandages and patch them up after the fact. The tall nation looked up from his hunched over position, eyebrows raised, smiling slightly.

"Da? This is not a problem for you, is it? If you are hoping to spare me the sight, it isn't anything I have not seen before." The smile widened, becoming something more than cruel.

If anything, that comment didn't help. Lithuania flinched away from the expression he was getting, and shook his head. "N – no. It isn't."

"Good. Then get on with it, hm?" Russia's smile vanished, and he returned to sorting out the pile. Bandages, a cloth… the telltale clink of glass bottles, which meant that he had brought more than one up with him.

Toris shivered, and turned to Gilbert, who looked blandly back. The Baltic nation wondered whether the other was capable of any other expression without feeling pain. With steady, practiced hands – not that he made a habit of stripping people on Russia's behalf – he began to work the buttons on Gilbert's uniform. They came away easier than expected – in some places, the thread keeping them on was so weak it snapped when he tugged too hard. The shirt wasn't going to be saved, Toris noted absently. Judging by the dried stains on it, he hoped Prussia hadn't been planning on keeping it.

"Always knew… you wanted to get…. in my pants, Toris…" Gilbert mumbled when the other leaned in to work apart the hook in the collar. Lithuania flushed. Even in a situation like this, Gilbert couldn't manage to stay serious; or keep his mouth shut. It was going to get him in trouble, Toris knew; none of the Baltic nations had been particularly mouthy towards Ivan, and he had still found offense in the most innocent of comments. Speaking of the Russian, Lithuania realized he couldn't hear the man moving anymore – which meant that he could probably hear everything.

"Shut up, Gilbert," he growled, giving the other a scowl; playing along, because he got the feeling that was what Prussia needed most right now. The older nation (_ex-nation_, his conscience whispered) hadn't ever been one for being treated like an invalid, despite the very obvious fact that was what he was at the moment.

"You're not denying – _aaagghh_!" The other's playful taunt dissolved into a gasp of pain as Toris jerked too hard on his shirt.

Lithuania had seen battered nations. Hell, he had seen himself after a night spent with an angry, drunken Ivan Braginski. But Prussia looked like he had been through a mine field and back. The bandages that started at the top of his head, wrapping over one eye, around part of his jaw, and down his neck _continued_ down his chest, around his arms – some of it was clean, some of it was not. Clearly the physical exertion of walking here had ripped open wounds again, if the dull red blossoms on his chest and neck were anything to go by.

That was not to mention the _smell_. Toris had wondered why Gilbert had had his jacket so tight – it must have caused him so much additional pain. But now he realized that perhaps that jacket and these bandages were the only things actually keeping the other together.

"Infection," the bandaged man supplied weakly. That explained the faintly disgusting smell coming from the bandages. "West… didn't have time…" One of his hands waved uselessly in the air for a moment, communicating what he didn't want to say aloud.

"Da, and this is why we will fix you."

"Alternately," Gilbert said deliberately, meeting that dead violet gaze with his own brilliant red, "you could… just let me… go home. Where _West_… who does _not_… resemble a serial murderer… will fix me."

Russia had stood – Toris hadn't noticed the larger nation rising, which was odd because of the sheer amount of _space_ that Ivan occupied – and his expression flickered dangerous as Prussia spoke. Lithuania knew that look – it woke memories of an earlier time; the flash of light off a metal blade, screams of pain gone unanswered in the night. The sudden prickle down his back was enough to remind him that those days hadn't really been so long ago.

"Do you remember that little chat we had, out in the snow?" Ivan was now looming over the bed. He was utterly conscious of the intimidation factor present with his size, and he used it whenever the opportunity presented itself. "About opinions, and how yours doesn't _matter_?" On the last word, Russia's expression darkened further, and he leaned over the bed.

"You didn't… say anything… about backtalk… you damn _russki_," Gilbert spat back, finding energy somewhere within his tattered frame to fight back.

"I am _now_, _nemchishka_**(1)**," Ivan said back, his tone entirely pleasant. Toris, off to the side, flinched before Russia's hand actually made contact with the injured side of Gilbert's face with a resounding crack.

The force of the blow jerked the Prussian sideways, and elicited a hoarse yell of pain from him. Gilbert curled away from the blow, trying not to fall off the bed at the same time. Blood began to seep out from under the cotton pad covering his eye; from under the bandage securing it there.

"S_cheißen_!" Gilbert cursed under his breath for a few more moments, trying not to show the actual amount of pain that was now radiating from the slash under the bandages. Not to mention that the slap had jerked his body enough to rip open more of the precious scabbing that had occurred under his chest bandages.

"Are you ready to behave now, Gilbert?" Ivan leaned in closer, putting his hands on either side of the German and staring right into his face. He got no response, just a one eyed glare that would have peeled paint off of walls. The Russian wasn't fazed in the slightest, and straightened with an abrupt clap of his hands, and turned to regard Lithuania.

"Toris, sit him up and take the bandages off. Keep the bleeding down – I want to save these sheets."

Lithuania nodded, and moved forward again. He stared at Gilbert for a quick moment – the blood on his face added a ghastly aspect to his already gaunt features. Carefully, he slid a hand under the other's back, feeling the soft bandages under his fingers. Gilbert didn't cry out once; he just let out a steady hissing stream of air between gritted teeth. The bloody flowers on his chest grew larger as he was moved.

"I have to take your jacket off," Toris said, and on cue the other raised his arms, eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Ivan's shoulder. It seemed that he was coping with the fact that Russia was in the room by pretended that Ivan didn't exist at all.

Getting the jacket off was rather more trying, and eventually Gilbert grew frustrated with the slow pace and simply yanked his arms out himself; holding a deep breath and not letting go as he did so. The bandages, too, proved to be a great trial. They hadn't been changed in some time – mostly because Gilbert had refused to let anyone near enough to him to do it – and were sticking to the wounds. The long exposure to the cold hadn't helped, making the fabric stiff in places. Once they were off, Toris found himself staring, momentarily at a loss for what to say.

Gilbert looked as though he had been beaten within an inch of his life. Slashes covered his back and front; most of them were semi-healed, though several had been ripped open again. All of them had a raised, angry red cast to them that implied still-untreated infection. But what kept Lithuania's eyes was the hideous wound own Gilbert's left side – it continued from his back over his shoulder, snaking over his heart and down to his ribs. The skin was blackened in places, almost like a burn; the flesh melted and twisted into disturbing raised ridges. Down the ribs, the scabbing was patchy at best, and the Baltic nation swore that he could see bone through the mess of oozing blood and – well, he didn't want to think about what that other substance might be.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Gilbert's voice was rough. His gaze was still fixed on that point just over Russia's shoulder. "It's better than it was two weeks ago, if you can believe it."

"I have some – difficulty – imagining," Lithuania murmured. In addition to everything else, there was a funny marking around Prussia's neck – almost like a metal collar had rested there, and he had tried everything short of decapitating himself to get it off. His brown eyes slid to the ex-nation's fingers; sure enough, the nails were ragged, the skin covered in faint scars from where he had scrabbled at it; presumably in vain. Though he noticed, too, what looked like a fresh set of finger-shaped bruises rising around Gilbert's neck, Lithuania knew better than to comment. It didn't take a great leap of logic to figure out what – rather _who – _those were from.

"They aren't healing," Ivan said shortly, from his position at the end of the bed. He reached into the pile of bandaging next to him and pulled out one of the vodka bottles, along with a cloth. "Clean them with this – I don't want our newest family member taking too ill." A childish smile appeared on Russia's face. "I will leave this for you to do, Toris. Try and keep it down, da?" The massive nation turned, boots clumping. Lithuania knew that those boots only made sound when their wearer wanted them to.

"I'm going to go see where Raivis is with that tea." Ivan said after a momentary pause by the door. The smile hadn't left his face, and he turned it on Gilbert, who was pointedly still not looking at him. "Get better soon, Comrade Beilschmidt."

There was a tense silence in the room as Russia shut the door behind him, and clumped off down the hallway. A dull thud a few moments later told Toris that the giant of a man had finally decided to kick his boots off; probably in preparation to terrorize Latvia and Estonia. Gilbert, too, remained tense until he could no longer hear Ivan's steps. At that moment, the iron strength that had kept him sitting up under his own power vanished; he collapsed backward, and Toris had to make a lunge to catch him.

Unfortunately, there was very little uninjured skin-space in which he was able to do so. Prussia let out a low grunt of pain, but restrained himself from anything else as Lithuania lowered him back onto the bed. A pained crease had appeared on his forehead.

"Thought… the stupid commie… wouldn't ever leave," he said, voice fainter than it had been all night. "Didn't… want to fall over… in front of him."

"I know what you mean," Toris said softly, not sure whether he should pity or be envious of Prussia's current state. At least this meant that he was safe from anything that Russia might think up to do to him. For a while, at least. "That urge to deny them… something. Anything, if it means you're showing some sort of resistance." He had stopped doing such things a long time ago. In the case of Russia, sometimes it was better to just give in.

It took Prussia's rasping prompt of "Could you… get this over… with," to make Toris realize that he had momentarily zoned out. The Baltic nation blinked, shook himself, and then looked back at Gilbert, who was staring at him with a grimace on what was visible of his face. There were still _those_ bandages to uncover, and Toris wasn't sure that he wanted to know what had happened to the other's face.

"Sorry," he muttered, reached out and grasping the bottle and cloth that he had been left. The squeaking of the lid unscrewing sounded absurdly loud. The sharp, stinging smell that filled the room a moment later was even worse. Toris grimaced as he poured a bit of the clear alcohol onto the cloth; it absorbed it greedily. "This… is really going to hurt," he warned, holding the cloth up. He considered the plethora of wounds he had to clean, and figured that he might as well start with the worst; get it over with.

"Just _do_ it," the other hissed out from between clenched teeth, already anticipating the pain.

Wincing slightly – even though he wasn't the one who would feel it – Lithuania reached out with practiced, gentle hands. The cloth pressed into the horrible disfigurement on Gilbert's side. There was a moment of silence, in which he heard a sharp inhale of breath from the other nation – and then, just when he figured the other wasn't going to do anything more; Gilbert's body arched under his hand as he pressed the cloth in. The Prussian's visible eye was clamped shut, face scrunched in pain, which only caused more of it. His hands splayed uselessly against the bed sheets, alternately clenching and unclenching.

Lithuania removed the cloth.

Gilbert continued to twitch, though his body fell flat against the sheets again. Tears had gathered in the corner of his eye, threatening to spill over as he fixed that red gaze to the ceiling and didn't blink.

"Do you want me to –" Toris started to say something, but Gilbert's entire body simply tensed in response.

"Just… _finish it_…" he spat. "Worse… if you… stop now…"

Grimacing in sympathy, Lithuania tipped out a bit more of the alcohol, and this time without hesitation, pressed it against the wound. It was disturbing to feel the injury beneath the cloth – ripples and patterns in the flesh where they shouldn't be raised goose-bumps on his arms.

To his credit, Gilbert refrained from screaming the entire time.

Cleaning his chest took quite some time, but finally they were done. Lithuania wasn't positive that was all it would take to keep infection at bay – surely there was some sort of medicine they could use? – but he wasn't sure if Russia would be forthcoming with anything else helpful. At the ex-nation's request, he wrapped the bandages extra tight.

Getting the old bandages off of Prussia's face proved to be even more of a challenge than the ones on his torso had been. This was partially because the white haired man was beginning to succumb to his returning fever and the delirium brought on by an overload of pain. When they were lying in a bloody heap beside the bed, Toris wished that he hadn't had to take them off. The slap that Russia had given Prussia to the face hadn't helped, but it was still an ugly wound.

A deep slash ran from somewhere under his white hair all the way down to his jaw line. It cut directly through his eye; the lashes were gummed shut, and Lithuania couldn't tell if the wound had actually been deep enough to rob the other of sight. Trembling fingers hovered just over it as Prussia's working eye flickered to his face, gauging his reaction.

"That bad, is it?" His voice was barely audible, but for the first time in a while he spoke without pausing in pain. "West… wouldn't tell me."

"It's –" Toris debated whether or not the other would want the truth. "It isn't pretty, I'll give you that." His smile was fragile. "But you'll certainly look dashing with that scar. The ladies will like it, I'm sure."

Prussia's expression hardened and the eye moved away. "As if that matters." Toris realized that he had said something wrong – the ex-nation was infamous for his refusal to grow close to anyone, after all.

"I'm going – to go get some water for this," he said haltingly. "I don't want to rub alcohol right into it. I'll see if I can get the lashes apart." He rose from his seat, hurrying out of the room before Prussia could get any words out.

When he was gone, Gilbert's straight-backed posture slumped. The white-haired man's shoulders started to shake with repressed shudders, and his hands clenched and unclenched on the sheets.

"_Damn it_…" he hissed through teeth gritted so hard that his jaw ached. "_Damn it, damn it, damn it_." One of his hands came up to cradle the side of his head that didn't sport an injury, and the Prussian man – the last Prussian man – struggled to fight back the tears. He hadn't cried when they had lost the war. He hadn't cried when the Allies had stripped him of his country, his people, and his _purpose_. Even when they had told him he was going to live with Russia, his eyes had remained dry. But after seeing Lithuania's expression – that look of _pity_ in those brown eyes, though the man himself had been unaware that he had been showing it – had twisted something deep inside the ex-nation; a fear that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"I don't want this," he whispered, lips dry and cracked. "I… never wanted… any of this. It wasn't…. supposed to _happen this way_!" On the last words, his hands moved of their own accord, picking up one of the unused vodka bottles and hurling it at the wall. The glass shattered, an explosion of clear liquid bursting out, soaking the wall, the carpet. It didn't help at all.

"G – Gilbert?" Lithuania was standing in the doorway, a bowl of warm water in his hands, staring with wide eyes at the damp spot on the wall that was only a few feet from his head. "Are – you alright?"

"What the fuck do you think?" Gilbert's voice was dark, but he didn't raise his head, letting his ragged bangs shadow his eyes.

"Ah – sorry. Standard question." Toris returned to his seat, placing the bowl on the table beside the bed. He was silent for a few seconds, seemingly debating saying something. "Gilbert – if you want to avoid Ivan… I suggest against smashing his things. A quieter rebellion is wiser in this house –"

"Like the one… you're offering?" His tone was poisonous. Prussia had gone from firmly neutral to bitter in the five minutes he had been let alone to think. It didn't help that was he sure Toris had seen his meltdown. "Curling up… and letting him walk… on you?"

"We get back at him in smaller ways, Gilbert. If you're only going to get hurt –"

"That isn't _good enough_," Gilbert hissed, turning suddenly, eye filled with a sudden spurt of enraged fire. "If you get hurt, that means you're being _effective_. I can take… pain. I _like_ pain; it means that… I'm getting somewhere."

Toris let out a sigh, dipping a clean cloth in the water. He put his free hand on Gilbert's head so that the other could not turn away – his grip was surprisingly strong. "You do not know Ivan the way we do," the Baltic nation said calmly, apparently nonplussed by the insults he was receiving. "You know him in battle, where he does have a sense of honor. In this house, where he does not have the other nations looking over his shoulder, where the other nations do not have the jurisdiction or right to interfere, he's different." Lithuania dabbed the cloth lightly around the injured eye. "He would not hesitate to cripple you. Frankly, you are not important. You are simply a spoil of war. You have nothing that is worth having, except the prestige of having broken the once mighty Prussian Empire." He drizzled a bit of water into the corner of Gilbert's eye, ignoring his flinch of surprise.

"I won't _let_ –"

"That's the strange thing about Ivan," Toris continued, talking right over whatever the other was trying to say. "He _doesn't care_. He doesn't _expect_ you to let him break you. He expects you to fight, so that he can hurt you and claim that you were being rebellious. He _wants_ you to fight back tooth and nail, because that means he can do the same – only he will come up with far worse than what you can. Believe me." There was a firm conviction on his tone; a conviction that could only come from experience. "Any torture that you have undergone will be _nothing_ to what Ivan will come up with. He knows how to get into your head. Exactly which buttons to push. And he won't just push them; he'll smash them until you hardly know who you are anymore."

There was silence for a long while, save for the dripping as Lithuania wrung out the cloth periodically. The water in the bowl had gradually turned from clear to an unpleasant pink. Prussia was stewing – wanting to lash out at the other for so sharply cutting down his protests, but unable to find the strength necessary to do so. A kitten could probably beat him in his current condition. If only Gilbird had been around, he could have sicked the little animal on the other. But he hadn't seen the yellow chick since he had left it behind when he had gone off to fight.

"… do you think there's something after?" Prussia's tone was more subdued – less of that fanatical refusal to give in evident in it.

Toris paused in tipping a small amount of vodka onto the last clean cloth. "After? You mean like a heaven?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Not necessarily… a heaven. I mean… anything. Something more than… oblivion."

Lithuania himself hadn't ever believed in such a thing – for what purpose would there be an afterlife for nations? They weren't alive in the true sense of the word; they weren't even really people, despite their resemblance to humans. No, the Baltic nation imagined that when countries disappeared, that was what they did. They ceased existing. They almost never came back – Poland being one of the exceptions – and he supposed the nation was simply reborn if that was the case.

He was about to say so to Gilbert, when he caught the look in the other's eye. It was evident that the ex-nation thought he was hiding it – but with all of the strain his body was going through right now, it would have been a miracle if he had been capable of hiding his emotions successfully. And despite their past, despite the fact that Gilbert's attitude grated on his nerves, and that he didn't particularly like the brash German man, Toris couldn't bring himself to share his personal view on the matter.

"I'm sure there's something," he said quietly, aware that the silence had grown almost uncomfortable. "I mean… if Rome can come back to watch over Northern Italy… there must be somewhere that he can come back _from_, right?"

"He had his scars," Gilbert muttered absently. His open eye was bright again; sweat beading on his brow despite the room-temperature conditions. The fever was back, and he was losing his grip on reality again. "West said… he had his scars… when he saw him…"

Lithuania hadn't been aware that the ancient nation had paid Ludwig a visit – but then again, considering his closeness to Feliciano, it wasn't all that surprising.

"I don't… want to be… blind."

The words escaped him, sounding like a dying thing. Toris stared at him in surprise – such an admission was not something the Prussia _he_ knew would have said. But then again, this entire situation was not something the Prussia of the past would have ever allowed himself to be trapped in.

"Gilbert…" he said softly, placing the forgotten-about rag on his lap. "Gilbert, you won't be blind." He felt an irrational urge to comfort the other – perhaps it was the strangeness of the entire evening catching up to him at last. "You can still see, can't you? You'll be fine."

"Don't… feed me that bullshit." Prussia tilted his head so that he could fix Toris with a pointed, one-eyed glare. "It… won't open. I felt… that blade… I know what near misses… feel like. This wasn't one."

Lithuania sighed, and picked up the cloth again. There was no point trying to hammer positive thoughts into Gilbert's head – he was far too stubborn and thick for brute force to be of any success. Perhaps, with time, his eye might – the nation shoved that thought away. Looking at the mess the wound had already become; well, if the initial injury hadn't destroyed the sight on that side of Prussia's face, the infection that had set in surely would have.

"He's… not going to win," Prussia mumbled, staring at a point somewhere beyond Toris's shoulder, no longer seeing him. "I… won't let him win. I'm going back. This… separation… won't last."

"Prussia –"

"Shut up… Lithuania. I'm going… back. I'll be… strong. I… won't let him keep me… here. I won't… lose myself… like you have."

His words were getting fainter and fainter, but Toris didn't want to hear them anymore. A coil of anger burned in his stomach at the accusation. Logically, the other wasn't in his right mind – but, well, he wouldn't be saying these things if somewhere in his mind, he hadn't already thought of them. Gilbert knew nothing of what living under Ivan was like – the constant terror, balancing on the knife blade that was the Russian's unpredictable moods and whims. He let the cloth fall from numb fingers; removed the bowl of water from his lap and stood. Gilbert's red eye remained fixed where it was, not noticing his presence at all.

"You'll see," the other nation whispered poisonously as he made to leave. While normally mild mannered, Lithuania had a nasty streak to him as well, fostered over the years in Russia's 'care'. His brown eyes lingered over the figure in the bed, the figure he had spent the better part of two hours fixing up. The uncovered wound on his face stood out starkly, but Toris didn't want to finish the task – Prussia had drawn a clear, uncross-able line with his words, fever twisted as they had been.

"You'll soon see the way of things."

**(1)**"German meat."

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_**A/N: **So, in an attempt to make this fiction at least somewhat accurate to history (psh, as if) I've gone back and made some minor edits. Here's an overview, if you don't want to go back and look._

_- Cheesy song lyrics at the beginnings of chapters  
- A few minor text changes (and by minor, I mean maybe a few sentences at best.)_

_**Please note: **The Wall has not been built yet. It wasn't for fourteen years into the separation, actually. Right now there's still a barrier, but you can still see to the other side._

_And don't mind Lithuania. He's just stressed out right now. :3_

_If you've read, I'd appreciate a review!_

_- Pheleon._


	4. Feelings of Guilt

**Soluble Chapter Four: Feelings of Guilt**

"_And this day's ending is proof of time killing all the faith I know_

_Knowing that faith is all I hold_

_And I've lost who I am_

_And I can't understand…"_

_- Shattered, Trading Yesterday_

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* * *

_

It was another full day before any of the inhabitants of the large house saw Ivan Braginski again. Apparently while Toris had been with Prussia – nearly a full two hours, despite the fact that he had walked out on the other before finishing – the Russian had up and left after gulping down the tea that Latvia had made. He hadn't even taken the time to terrorize the smallest of them, something that he normally seemed to take pleasure in. It had actually been something of a relief – with the ending of the war, Ivan had been more tied up than usual, managing issues with his country, and the peace-talks after the war. This was in addition to the sudden increase in the number of meetings the countries had with one another; meetings he rarely let the three Baltics attend together.

It had been something of a relief for them all – especially Lithuania, who wasn't sure what Ivan would say when he realized that the other had disobeyed him. Though he now regretted the rash action – it was more cruelty when the Prussian had obviously suffered enough already – Toris hadn't quite found the time to get back up there to finish the job. There was always something that was demanding his attention; though if he were to be honest with himself, he would acknowledge that he was avoiding it too.

But the reprieve was not to last. The day after he had dragged Prussia home, Ivan reappeared like some demon from hell. It was, Toris felt, an accurate description based on the way that the other had entered. A storm had appeared, suddenly as they were wont to do in this area, and he and Estonia had spoken about where Russia might be – and more importantly, what his chances of being home that night were. They had been pleasingly small – but then again, Ivan had always been one to defy the norm.

The door had blow open, banging off – and probably denting – the walls quite violently, showering the entranceway with snow. Standing framed in the doorway was Ivan, coat buttoned tight and scarf whipping out beside him like something possessed. He had stood there a moment longer, probably taking in the startled expressions of Lithuania and Estonia - who had moved to the entranceway to talk in private – before entering and pulling the door shut behind him.

"Well, don't just stand there. Put something warm on the stove, da?"

And that was how they had ended up where they were now – the three of them gathered around the too large table, cups of rapidly cooling tea in front of them. Latvia had been pointedly excused from the little late-night meeting. Russia was the only one who seemed comfortable with the thick silence in the room, and was happily downing his tea – he was already on his third cup. Eduard shifted in his seat across from Toris, trying to brush off the tension that was growing by the second.

"We need to have a little chat, you and I," Russia said, pulling out a bottle from nowhere. He splashed the clear liquid into his own teacup, and took a long sip of the mixture. He left the vodka sitting there, innocently, as if inviting the other two to take it. His comment had been directed towards Toris, causing Eduard to give the other an odd look.

"If you don't mind my asking, then – why am I here?" Estonia's voice was clipped, just short of being impolite. While none of the Baltic nations would rebel in extreme ways, they didn't have to follow all of Russia's little rules.

Ivan smiled, swirling his alcoholic tea around in its cup. "Because Toris is the unofficial leader of your little silent rebellion," he said, expression not even twitching. "And I know that if I forcefully pound into _his_ head what I mean when I say I expect my orders to be _followed_; you will learn the same lesson." He took another sip; the temperature in the room seemed to drop as he spoke. "Or perhaps I just wish to, how do you say, catch up with two of the nations in my care. It _has_ been such a long time since we were able to talk, da?"

"Ivan, please… just leave Eduard out of this," Toris said quietly, refusing to meet the aforementioned nation's eyes. He knew what this was about – and he hadn't told the other two in what state he had left Prussia the previous night.

Those horrible, dead violet eyes turned to him, and Lithuania couldn't hide a little shiver. Russia smiled again, pleased at this reaction. "Ah, I suppose you are right." Abruptly – and moving faster than Toris had thought him capable of – Ivan was standing and moving towards him. He had little time to react as one of his massive hands closed around his shoulder. "Go to bed, Eduard," Ivan said in a sweet tone. "I'll talk with you later – for now, I wish to _educate_ little Litva in private."

Estonia opened his mouth to protest – he wasn't sure what had gotten Ivan riled up, but he knew whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Don't." The language Lithuania used was his own, and while Estonia wasn't a fluent speaker, he knew a few words – it was another way of rebelling, refusing to use the language Ivan had forced on them. "I'll be –"

His words were cut off with a forceful whack across the side of his head from Ivan, whose eyes had darkened. "Russian, please," he said sharply – making it clear that it wasn't a polite request.

Estonia nodded simply, and sank back into his chair. Russia glared at him briefly, before hauling Toris up out of his seat by the arm, dragging the other off.

Being dragged by the Russian was not a pleasant experience. Ivan's steps were so long that Lithuania was mostly off balance the entire way, even up the stairs. As expected, he was hauled all the way to the end of the hallway, to the closed door at the end. But unlike what he had expected, Russia simply let go of him, rather than slamming his head into the wall as Lithuania had been bracing himself for.

"I know that you did not finish what I assigned to you," Ivan said, turning the doorknob slightly. Despite himself, Lithuania peeked in over his shoulder.

The room was deathly silent, and Prussia lay in the same position as he had been a day ago. His face, however, was a bloody ruin. Apparently, in his sleep, without the bandages to stop him, he had clawed at the wound, dragging it open wider. Toris felt a twinge of guilt in his stomach as Russia softly shut the door again, turning to face him.

"Normally I would be disappointed, da, and then I would have to punish you."

Toris paused, blinking, as Ivan's words caught up with him. "Normally?" His voice came out somewhat strangled. When the Russian decided to do something out of the ordinary, it usually wasn't an improvement.

"Da. But this is not a normal situation, is it?" Ivan smiled that strange, unnerving smile of his. "I'm sure you know Prussia. From what I understand you and Polska fought with him several times in the past, da?"

"Well – yes, back when he was still with the Teutonic Knights, but –"

"And you have also seen him at world meetings." Russia continued talking straight over what Toris was saying. "So you and I both understand that he is the most stubborn, irritating, and exasperating of nations, da? He has… spirit."

Lithuania had to force his expression to stay straight. To say that what Prussia had was merely spirit was like saying the war they had just gone through was a minor dispute; a gross understatement. "Well… yes, that's what he's like." He had a sinking feeling he knew what this conversation was about, and he really didn't want it to continue.

"Da. And I don't like that. I don't like rebellious nations; I want a family that does what they're told, when they're told, and _how_ they're told. Prussia – or whatever it is he is now – will not do that. It is not his nature to bend knee to any power, no matter how obviously superior."

_Then why don't you just beat it into his body like you did to mine? It's such an _effective_ way of getting your point across_, was Toris's unspoken thought. The old scars on his back twinged slightly. While Ivan hadn't actually attacked him with intent to cause real harm in some time, the memories still remained fresh.

"Physical violence is not an answer either." Lithuania wasn't sure if Russia was consciously echoing his thoughts. He hadn't _thought_ the other nation capable of mind reading, but with Ivan, one could never be sure… "Seeing as he has a higher tolerance for pain than you. He won't scream for me like you did, Litva, da?" The expression on his face was cruel.

"…" Toris felt a coil of heat twist in the bottom of his stomach, despite the look he was getting. Yes, he had broken under Russia's treatment… but it was either give in or internalize all of it and go insane and give Ivan what he wanted _anyway_. He had preferred to keep his mind – screaming had let him do that.

Ivan was turning down the hall already, slow ponderous steps clunking on the wood as he paced the small area. "But you see, Toris… he is a warrior, da? Physical perfection is a must for a proper warrior. Scars are a sign of… _bravery_. But to be crippled by such injuries – not so brave, da? His vision is precious to him – and now that, thanks to you, he has lost half of it; well, he will be most eager to keep what's _remaining_, don't you think?"

The heat in his stomach froze like ice at those words, and the smaller nation couldn't help but give Russia an appalled look. They were countries, and normally mere physical violence would do nothing to them that wouldn't heal over shortly. But Gilbert was weak, very weak. His people were not Prussian any longer; they weren't sure what they were. His wounds would not heal with the speed that they were supposed to, as his current ones were already proving.

"I must say, Litva, though the lesson took much time to get into your skull, I have taught you well, da?" Ivan was in his face before he could react much beyond a surprised flinch. The Russian's eyes were dark with something that he couldn't quite place.

"W – What do you mean?" Lithuania was acutely conscious of the massive hand resting next to his head, the way Ivan was leaning down to look right into his eyes.

"You… always had such a high moral standard. You took pride in it, thinking that it kept you from sinking to my level. Don't try to deny it, Lithuania, I _know_ how you work." Ivan's voice had lost the childish tone it usually carried. "But – leaving Gilbert alone in that room to suffer – to allow the infection to reach his eye so _completely_… this is not so morally correct. In fact, you could almost say it's something _I _would do."

Toris could feel himself shaking. His mind was so focused on finding an escape route around the massive nation before him that he didn't even pause to wonder how Russia would know Gilbert's current state when he himself had just returned home. The hand moved then, so fast that his effort at dodging was almost laughable. The large fingers gripped his collar, and Russia straightened – pulling the smaller man straight off of his feet. Toris's hands scrabbled at Ivan's, trying instinctively to pry his fingers apart. No such luck – his grip was far too strong, even one-handed.

"But just because I am pleased with what you have done," Russia continued, their noses almost touching, "do not make the mistake of thinking that I will allow you to _ever_ disobey my orders. When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it, da?" He shook his captive lightly, heedless of Toris's attempts to escape the choking grasp.

"Y – yes!" Lithuania could see spots on his vision, and the words came out hoarse.

Russia's lips curved up into a happy smile, but he still did not let the other go. "And one more thing… _Litva_." He leaned forward, pressing Toris into the wall, until his mouth was right beside the smaller man's ear. "I'm not as stupid as you seem to think I am." To Lithuania's horror, the words were spoken in _his_ language, and quite fluently so. "I make a point of learning _everything_ about my family… even if I do not advertise the fact. You will use Russian from now on. You will obey my orders without question. You will run off to Estonia and Latvia when I put you down and you will _tell_ them this, so that they know _nothing_ is safe from me, da?" The words were menacing, despite not being spoken in more than a whisper.

Without waiting for a response, Ivan stepped away and released his grip, leaving Toris to fall to the ground. The large nation looked down at him for a long moment, before turning, adjusting his scarf, and clomping off down the hallway. For his part, Lithuania remained where he was, half crouched on the thick carpet, eyes still wide. He hadn't thought that Ivan had known – he had never heard – how had he – his thoughts swirled around and around, chasing one another as fruitlessly as a dog will chase its tail.

But above all, as he finally pulled himself to his feet, straightened his collar, gave Gilbert's room a last look – he hadn't been told to fix the other, after all – and turned down the hallway, Toris felt a sick sensation in his gut. It was true – his one moment of petty revenge, of anger, had reduced him to the level of a man he had despised for doing much the same. Perhaps the extended contact with Russia… living in his house and under his rule for so long was changing him, more drastically than he had thought possible.

It wasn't a comforting realization.

* * *

For once, Germany couldn't bring himself to do work. It wasn't that he didn't have a lot of it – and most of it _was_ depressing to read in any case – but his mind continually wandered off on its own whenever he started to get into what he was doing. It didn't help that there was a large window in his office, facing directly towards the east. If he looked out of it, Ludwig could see the barbed wire barrier that separated him and his brother.

Such a trivial barrier would not have been, not so long ago, an issue for either brother. But now Ludwig found his nation crippled once again in the wake of the Second World War. His people were still gripped with a terrible grief and a guilt – both of which he shared. Adolf, in the beginning, hadn't seemed – crazy. True, Gilbert had hated him from the get go, but he wasn't Gilbert boss, and besides – Germany knew his older brother hated a lot of people. Ludwig himself had been desperate to pull his country out of the spiral of depression, debt, and hopelessness that had left him bedridden for many weeks after the first war.

This time, the victors had not exacted such crushing penalties on the losing side – well, at least as far as they were concerned. Alfred could be somewhat excused – a western nation, he was largely ignorant of the relationships many of the eastern nations shared. But England – Arthur had been the one to suggest the idea in the beginning. Francis had obviously been angry about it, but the French nation hadn't actually made any verbal protest. Ivan, of course, was only too happy with the arrangement.

"_Damn it_!" Ludwig slammed his fist into his desk, inadvertently crushing the end of his pen and sending ink spattering across his hand and the documents under it. The blonde barely noticed, dropping the instrument and finally giving in. He shoved his chair back, ignoring the squeal of protest, and stalked over to the window. One hand reached out to touch the glass as h is blue eyes stared out over a drizzly, gloomy Berlin. He wondered if somewhere over that border, where he could not see, Gilbert was doing the same.

_I doubt Ivan would let him_. _In any case… after being forced to walk all the way to that bastard's house with his injuries, I doubt he's in any sort of shape to stand up and be depressed._ That brought a hesitant, twitching smile to his face – though it was quite short lived. Depressed was not a word that should ever be applied to his brother – the only time Germany could recall that annoying personality being dampened was back when that boss of his, Old Fritz, had passed away.

_And when they handed him a piece of paper saying he wasn't a nation anymore_, a traitorous part of his conscience reminded him. That, too, had been painful to see – the look on Gilbert's face as he read slowly through the thick legal jargon. He had been a warrior for so long – and Ludwig had only known him as such – it was difficult for the older nation to understand that a piece of _paper_, easily thrown in the fire and burnt, was enough to end him. Frankly, he had spend the next few hours lying around looking miserable, waiting to disappear like all of the other nations who had gone before. But nothing had happened – and that had seemed like a good thing at the time.

Well, before Ivan had come along and pleasantly announced that Gilbert now belonged to Russia and was to be known as the German Democratic Republic. Before the damned arctic nation had gone and dragged off his older brother, who had only really been following Ludwig to support him in the war, who hadn't really understood what had been happening, he had been kept in the dark so much. To pay for the crimes of his younger brother. Ludwig felt that his own personal punishment – having that idiot Alfred checking in on him what felt like every five minutes, the mistrust (and hatred, in Poland's case) of many nations, and the physical damage, seemed like a slap on the wrist. His keeper wasn't inclined to brutality – or random, homicidal insanity.

"Please, Gilbert… be sensible for once." His breath created a light fog on the glass – he hadn't realized how close he had been leaning, as if he strained far enough, Prussia would be able to hear his words. "Don't antagonize him…"

It was an unlikely suggestion. Gilbert's mere presence was antagonizing enough in most cases, even before the white haired man opened his absurdly obnoxious, insensitive mouth. When he actually _said_ something – and he always had something to say – it usually resulted in numerous pissed off nations, if not outright screaming matches. Unfortunately, where most of the others had grown to tolerate, if not particularly enjoy, the Prussia's general disposition, most of the others were not Ivan Braginski; known to be set off by the strangest things.

Later, he would never be able to recall how long he had remained standing there, one hand pressed flat against the glass, palm going steadily numb. Around him, the house was deathly silent – even the dogs seemed to be in mourning for the missing member. It was, perhaps, because of this unnatural silence that he was able to hear the soft, almost desperate cheeping noise coming from what was the room Gilbert always stayed in when he visited.

Germany had to strain to hear it clearly, to make sure that it was actually real and not something conjured up by his sleep deprived, muddled brain. When it came again, fainter this time, he was sure. The blonde man turned sharply and all but sprinted down the hallway towards the room that Gilbert used whenever he stayed over at his younger brother's house. (Which, at the time, had been annoyingly frequent – but only a few days apart, and already Ludwig found himself missing his presence.)

Gilbert's room was exactly the same way he had left it – a large Prussian flag taking up most of one wall, a desk that rarely was used for anything but a boot rest, an extra uniform looking oddly neat lying there on the still unmade bed. The window was tightly shut. On the desk, however, was the source of the sound. Sitting on top of a stack of papers (curling slightly at the edges) was a tiny little cage.

The thing was clearly meant as no more than an easy way to transport the occupant, as Ludwig had never actually seen the yellow chick anywhere but on his brother's head. The bird was cheeping pathetically on its little perch, looking somewhat bedraggled. Germany wondered how long it had been there as he walked closer, leaning over to look at it. It stared back with big, black eyes that seemed to echo his own sadness. Perhaps it too knew that its owner had gone somewhere it couldn't follow.

He hadn't ever been fond of birds – they were too fragile for his liking, and he would never understand how someone as brash as Gilbert had managed to take care of one for so long – but this w as a piece of his brother. Carefully he unlocked the door, and reached one hand inside. The little yellow ball – which had, once, been fat and fluffy – clambered onto his finger with obvious effort. Ludwig stared at it for a moment, while it stared back, before something occurred to him.

"Shit, what did Gilbert feed this thing?" He didn't want the bird to starve – Prussia had loved it almost more than anything, and Germany wanted it alive and well when he returned. As he peered around the desk, looking for anything that looked remotely edible for birds – and trying not to dislodge the one sitting on his hand – he noticed the messy note taped to the desk next to the cage. He picked it up, eyebrows furrowing as he looked at the messy, spattered script.

_West; I know you don't like birds, but could you look after Gilbird for me for a bit? I know you don't like birds much, but he's real easy to take care of. Just put his seed in a dish a few times a week, and he'll pretty much look after himself. Don't let him get too fat._

_ Gilbert._

_p.s. the seed is in the bottom drawer of the desk_

Ludwig stared at the letter a moment longer. It was only a handful of words, but the messy, slanted scrawl was typical of his brother (no matter who his boss was, they always complained about it), and he wanted to take it in. It was the peeping of the bird – was its name _seriously_ Gilbird? – that took his attention away.

"I wonder when you were last fed," Germany muttered, looking at its somewhat thin profile for a moment.

"Piyo~!" The little thing shuffled farther up his finger, fluffing up its ragged feathers.

Sighing softly, the German nation pulled open the drawer Gilbert had instructed – only to find there wasn't anything in it. Ludwig stared at the empty space, brows furrowing. Typical of his brother – leave instructions that were entirely incorrect. The little bird made another sound, this one slightly stranger, and Ludwig looked at it in concern. He hadn't gone in this room for almost a week, and he couldn't see any sign of a food dish that had been left for the little guy. He looked at the note again, as if willing the words to reform into some other instruction. (He supposed he could always ask France what birds ate, but he would be damned before he voluntarily sought out Francis.)

It was, however, unnecessary to think such things. On the back of the sheet of paper was another scribbled sentence, this one even harder to read, as if someone had been trying to get him to hurry up – or he thought he was running out of time.

_If it's not there, check your sock drawer. _

Ludwig had to read this several times to make sure that was actually what it said. When his eyesight confirmed that yes, indeed, Gilbert had instructed him to search his _sock drawer_ to find _birdseed_, his lips twitched. A moment, and then he was chuckling softly to himself – for the first time in what seemed like forever. Still grinning to himself, Ludwig folded the note and slipped it into his pocket – before realizing that this motion was possible because there was no longer a bird sitting on his hand. He experienced a brief moment of panic, when he realized there was a strange weight on his head.

A glance in the large mirror (typical of Prussia to have a floor length one everywhere he spent long periods of time) on the back of the door provided the answer to both questions. While he had been distracted, the little yellow chick had somehow made its way to the top of his head, where it was now sitting, looking back at him in the mirror with large eyes.

"You can't –" Ludwig paused in the motion of reaching up to pluck the thing out of his hair. He could swear that the thing was giving him a deploring look. "Don't be ridiculous… it's a bird," he mumbled to himself. Gilbert had always sworn that the bird could speak, but no one had ever taken him seriously. (The traditional response to this had been "Of course none of you idiots can understand him. He speaks Awesome.")

But still the thing continued to look at him – it was that same look that Italy gave him when he was hoping for something. And just like when Italy looked at him like that, Germany could feel his resolve starting to waver.

"I can't walk around with a bird on my head," he muttered finally.

"Piyo~?" The thing shuffled higher up into his hair, a funny little yellow bump amongst the slicked back style, and entirely out of place in Ludwig's otherwise neatly put together self.

"I can't – it's –" He flapped his hand as if to emphasize the point, but already the argument was lost. The bird, apparently sensing this, cheeped once and settled further down into Germany's hair, making a little nest in the stiff strands. Ludwig glared at it, despite the fact that its eyes were now shut.

"Fine," he grumbled, not feeling quite as reluctant as he sounded. This was a piece of Gilbert, after all, that he could hang onto while the other was gone. He pulled the door open again, headed to his own to look for the birdseed that was, apparently stored in his sock drawer. He pointedly ignored the part of h is mind that kept asking why he seemed so eager to find small things that his brother had left behind if, as he had promised both Prussia and Russia, he would be getting the former back as soon as possible.

_Gilbert won't be over there long,_ he growled silently to himself. _Then he can look after his own bird, and I can finally concentrate on that mountain of damn paperwork. And then he can distract me, as always, and things can go back to normal, like the way they were before all of this started. _He yanked open the door to his room with a bit more force than necessary. _He'll be home before next year if there's anything I can do about it._

In the long years to come, Ludwig would find himself looking upon that brief window of optimism with a cynical sneer, and wonder why he had ever been so hopeful.

* * *

_**A/N: **Alright, here's the much awaited fourth installment into this little bit of madness. And this time we get to see a bit more of Germany~! Took me a bit longer than usual to get it up, but chapter five is being a pain to write, and I wanted to get that one finished before I posted this one, so... yeah._

_Anyway, here you are. Please review, guys! I know a bunch of you have this on fave/alert, and I'd really appreciate hearing from you!_

_Pheleon._


	5. A Prelude

**Soluble Chapter Five: A Prelude**

_And so he tries to paint the stars_

_But the clouds get in his way_

_He adds some white to bring them out_

_But the white just turns to grey_

_And then he tries to brush some red_

_But the colours seem to fade_

_And the clouds are back again_

_Yeah, this time they're there to stay_

**- **_The Painter, Mike Murphree_

_

* * *

_

It was many weeks after the revealing conversation between Lithuania and Russia in that lonely hallway that Prussia finally woke. His fever had broken a week after arriving at the large house, but his body had been too weak and too busy fighting off infection to support higher brain function. So, in the almost sentient way that the nation's bodies dealt with damages, Gilbert's body had kept him sleeping.

For the first while, his sleep had been neither healing nor quiet. It was not uncommon to hear hoarse screaming coming from his closed door – it had startled Latvia many times. Lithuania, who spent more time in Gilbert's room than anyone else, having been designated by Russia as Gilbert's official keeper, preferred the screaming. Because when he wasn't making a racket, the albino man lay as if dead. Sometimes tears would run down his cheeks – but only from one eye.

As the days passed, however, his breathing became more even, deeper. His core temperature went back down to a natural level, and at last Gilbert slipped into a deeper, healing sleep. The wounds on his body lost their angry red tone, and began to heal. The largest of them, the wound on his side, had already become a mess of shiny scar tissue.

But it took many days, and for a while Lithuania had feared that perhaps _this_ was how a nation died – their minds simply left them, and their bodies, like their land, simply remained echoes of what they had once been. It was only the telltale rising and falling of Gilbert's chest that denied this assumption. But woken he had – hoarse, weak, and several pounds lighter, but he was alive.

Ivan had been very pleased.

Since that time, the Russian had not gone to see his prize from the war. Which was strange, Lithuania mused as he carried a tray of food down the hallway, because the arctic nation had entered Gilbert's room quite frequently when the other had been unconscious. Then again, Gilbert had been in a foul mood ever since waking – at least around anyone who wasn't Lithuania himself. Apparently the albino man didn't remember anything of their conversation on the night of his arrival – and Toris had let go of his anger over it like a hot poker after Russia's confrontation with him.

"Are you going to fucking stand there with my food all day, Lithuania, or are you going to haul your scrawny ass in here and feed me?"

Gilbert's rough voice sounded from behind the door, which Toris hadn't realized he had been staring at. The albino man lacked anything approaching politeness, but for some reason, Toris found himself appreciating the change. Russia's house was normally one of muted whispers, not aggravated hollering down the hallways. (And Gilbert was singularly good at hollering – he made a point of it whenever he was bored.)

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Lithuania sighed, opening the door while precariously balancing the tray on his other arm. As he shuffled in, he nearly dropped it again. "You! What're you doing out of bed?" Indeed, Prussia was standing shakily, one hand grasping the frame, by the large window in his room. The white haired man turned as he heard the door opening, and the scolding.

"I got bored," he said, as if this explained it all. He seemed heedless of the tiny red spots that were already dotting his bandages. "All I do is lie in that bed all day, and I'm at the end of my patience with it. I'm fine – this hardly constitutes as me bleeding to death." So he was aware of the bleeding, then.

"Well, you're not getting dinner until you sit back down," Toris said, ignoring how much like a mother he sounded – he did this with Latvia and Estonia too, when they were sick.

"Any chance its beer and wurst?" Gilbert turned slowly, shuffling his way to his bed with teetering steps. "Hell, I would just take the beer now, if it came down to it…"

"I'm afraid not," Toris said, planting the tray in front of the other once he was sitting comfortably. "Beer isn't going to make you get better."

"Neither is this watery shit you keep on feeding me," Gilbert complained, staring with disappointment at the food in front of him. He still wasn't allowed many solids, and he was starting to sorely miss good old _German_ food, instead of the Russian concoctions he was continuously given. He rubbed idly at the bandages on his face. The infection had cleared from his eye, but he knew that there was little chance of ever regaining vision – mostly, he tried not to think about it. It was rather difficult, though, when it _itched_ so badly.

"Stop that." The Baltic nation whacked his hand away, eliciting a glare. "And that watery shit _is_ going to make you better, if you would stop complaining for once and just eat it." Toris gave him a light whack on his head, but Prussia was too busy staring at him, spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Did you just swear?" he asked, not noticing the soup falling back into the bowl. "Did you _seriously_ just say shit?" Prussia seemed torn between disbelief and amusement.

"It has been known to happen," Lithuania said dryly, standing. "Now, finish what I gave you, or else I'll make _sure_ you're eating that for the next ten years."

Gilbert choked on the spoonful he had been eating – despite his complaints; he really was too weak to refuse food, no matter what it was. Once he was done coughing, he gave Toris a long, strange look. "With luck I won't be here in ten years for you to order me around," he said slowly; and despite the teasing tone, there was something more serious in his words.

"Gilbert, I –"

"It is good to see you sitting up, comrade." The voice from the door made them both jump, Gilbert's soup sloshing in its bowl with the motion. Ivan was standing in the doorway, head nearly brushing the top of it, smiling at both of them. There was a bit of snow, rapidly melting in the warmth of the house, on his shoulders.

"I – Ivan, I didn't know you were going to be –" Toris scrambled to say something to reduce the suddenly murderous tension in the air. Gilbert's red eyes were fixed on the Russian's purple ones, and there was no mistaking what he was trying to convey.

"I don't need a nursemaid, Toris." Ivan's voice remained cheerful, but there were dangerous undertones – a warning that Lithuania had overstepped some invisible boundary. "Besides, I brought something for our newest family member, and I wanted him to be awake so I could give it to him, da?"

And then both of them realized that the other had been holding h is hands behind his back the entire time. Gilbert dropped the spoon back into the soup, ignoring the splashes it made on his bandaged torso.

"I don't want anything from you, you fucker," he snarled vehemently, "Unless it's a one-way pass back to West."

Russia only smiled wider. "Oh, yes, I came to talk to you about that too," he said, moving further into the room. Toris remained rooted where he was, wishing desperately that he didn't have to stand here and watch this. "You see, everyone thinks that Prussia has been dissolved. So everyone is wondering why he's still around, and hasn't become one with Germany."

"It's because I'm awesome," Gilbert snapped back, "And therefore far too mighty to become 'one with Germany.' Besides, he's my brother. That'd be creepy. As creepy as becoming one with _you_. Less, actually."

"Perhaps, but in that you didn't really have a choice, da?" Ivan laughed softly, and despite lacking the deeper voice tone, it was still unnerving. "But arguing will get us nowhere. Don't you want to hear why you haven't died yet? I hear you were worried about it for quite some time after you received the news."

"I don't question a good thing," Gilbert muttered, but the venom had gone from his tone. He hadn't thought anyone but West had been witness to his period of depression right after learning he was no longer going to be a country. That had been an intensely private, secret part of his life, and he hadn't wanted anyone else to know about it.

Ivan moved closer, and for the first time Toris got a look at what he was holding behind his back – his stomach clenched, and he wondered why Russia thought these things up. It was pointlessly cruel.

"Well, do you want to hear the news, or shall I give you your gift and allow you to wonder about it for the next few weeks?" Ivan was at the foot of the bed now, looking down at his captive. Gilbert had quite forgotten about the rapidly cooling soup on his lap.

"Just tell me, you ass, and get it over with." A flash of anger surfaced from his blank expression.

"It's cute, really. The people behind the barrier have decided to form a _new_ nation. It's weak and pathetic, as its representative clearly indicates, but they have started calling themselves the _German Democratic Republic_. It's a nice effort, but I doubt it will last long. I hope you enjoy your extended life, da? I'm certainly pleased we get to have you around for a while yet."

"I'm sure you are," Prussia growled, pointedly keeping his eyes fixed on the sheets. He wasn't sure he liked the new name… it was too fragile sounding. As if it would break apart at any given opportunity, and he with it.

"So, my little GDR, I brought you a gift to celebrate this news. Da, I think you will like it. I expect to see it with you wherever you go. If you do not have it, there will be consequences. Are we clear?"

"_Don't call me that_," Gilbert spat, leaning forward with red eyes flashing. "Do_ not_ reduce me to three initials, Ivan, or I swear to Gott on high, I will pound your fat face into the ground."

It wasn't hard for Ivan to reach Gilbert from where he was standing, and the resounding crack across the face nearly threw the slighter man out of bed. The tray of food was upset, and the soup bowl clattered to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Lithuania nearly jumped out of his skin, not having expected such an abruptly violent response.

"_Russian_, please~!" Ivan practically sang the words, not seeming bothered by the fact that the left side of Gilbert's face was now turning an ugly, vibrant shade of red. "I don't want to hear any German in my household."

"I don't fucking _know_ Russian," Gilbert shot back, spitting out blood onto the previously clean sheets. He scrabbled backwards over the bed as Ivan reached forward to hit him again, the man only narrowly missing. He and Lithuania had unconsciously been communicating in different languages – Gilbert in his native German, and Toris in Russian out of sheer habit. Their status as nations (none of them quite understood it) had been translating the other's words as they spoke.

"Well then, I suggest you learn it, GDR, and I suggest you learn it fast, da?" The bed creaked under the weight of the Russian as he moved around to Gilbert's side of the bed and sat on it, ignoring the soup that he was stepping in. "But you've gone and ruined my good news. If you're to be part of this family, I expect you to have a better attitude in the future, da?" As if Ivan hadn't just hit him with enough force to shatter bones if he hadn't been a nation, however weak. "Besides, I've brought you a gift."

"Get away from me," Prussia growled, and the tone was low and warning. His red eyes flashed with the spirit they had shown before this war with its endless consequences had beaten him. "I don't want anything from you." He repeated it, as if by saying it, he could get Ivan to stop.

"It's a gift, little GDR. To welcome the newest nation among us, da? And I don't particularly _care_ if you want it or not – you are going to take it anyway, or I will personally make sure that you never make it back to your beloved 'West' in more than palm-sized pieces." Ivan leaned forward, and there was that strange, dark menace that the other nations knew him so well for – the insanity that lurked just beneath the deceptively calm surface. "Now close your eyes."

Prussia glared furiously at Ivan even as the other spoke, but at the threat, some of the fight seemed to go out of him. Yes. He had to keep going – if not for himself, if so he could see Ludwig again. He could almost hear the other, admonishing him in the voice Germany always adopted when exasperated; _"Don't aggravate him, Gil. Pride is fine, but it won't serve you if you end up dead because of it."_ The same lesson that he had taught a younger Germany – repeated back at him by a _still_ younger Germany. Despite his burning desire to spite everything that the Russian wanted, to make Ivan fight tooth and nail to get any sort of obedience out of him, Gilbert knew the other could – and would – make good on his threats. And there was little hope of himself resisting, weak as he still was. And so, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, Gilbert closed his eyes.

Almost immediately, something warm and soft encased his neck. The Russian spent a few moments fiddling with it, before leaning back with a satisfied sigh.

"It looks good on you, Gilbert," he said in an approving sort of way. "Wouldn't you say, Toris?"

Toris, ignored until this point, jumped slightly at being addressed. He was busy trying to clean up the soup that had spilled – and trying to make himself invisible. "Ah –" He glanced at Prussia, who still had his eyes firmly shut, and back to Ivan. The Russian's expression was practically daring the Baltic nation to disagree. "Yes, I suppose. Yes it does." He stared at the 'gift' Gilbert was now wearing, before going back to his work. A small frown tugged at the corner of his mouth – he didn't understand why this was necessary.

"Open your eyes, Gilbert, and see what I've brought you. It took such effort to get it made, I hope you like it. And I expect you to wear it, too, if you want to see Germany again." Ivan's voice was back to being childlike. Even as he spoke, however, Ivan was rising from the bed. Toris, from his position on the floor, thought that perhaps even the Russian knew what the likely results were from this.

Gilbert slowly opened his eye. They slid down to look what was around his neck, pooling into his lap. Then they slowly rose to meet Ivan's violet orbs. A long moment of silence passed, but Gilbert didn't say anything at all.

"Da, I'm sure in time you will come to appreciate it. Toris, be sure that you get all of that mess cleaned up. I don't want it leaking into the carpet." Ivan offered one of his thin not-smiles again, before turning on his heel and clomping out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

For a moment the silence held. Toris looked up, pulling himself into a crouch to gauge Gilbert's reaction. The other's face was curiously blank for another few seconds as Russia's steps faded. When they were gone, his pale countenance twisted with anger and hatred. His hand moved faster than Lithuania was able to follow, and a few seconds later, the glass of water on the night table shattered against the door.

"That sick _fucker_ is going fucking _regret_ the day he broke us apart. _Scheißen!_" And then his words trailed off into unintelligible German. Toris watched the albino with something that wasn't quite pity, sitting there, Ivan's gift wrapped around his neck and shoulders like a crueler sort of shackle.

On his lap, Gilbert's hands crushed the ends of the soft scarf that Ivan had given him, which was so like the Russian's own. The red fabric stood out brightly, the crossed hammer and sickle at the end nearly drowning in it. A reminder – a brilliant red reminder – that Ivan considered him to be nothing more than a mere possession. As he sat there, staring at the water dripping down the door, Gilbert promised a silent revenge. He was stuck with the Russian for now – but that didn't mean he couldn't make every moment a living hell.

**

* * *

**

It was nearly a year before Gilbert was capable of walking under his own power for any sort of distance. In that time, he saw very little of the other inhabitants of the house, excluding Lithuania. Ivan had apparently decided to forget about him while he was recovering, and while the albino was all too happy to not have to see the Russian's ugly face, he found it irritating as well. As if Russia didn't consider him important enough to pay any sort of attention to.

Despite his newfound ability to move around – restricted mostly to his room by a worried Toris – Gilbert remained very weak. The muscles that he had spent many years honing were still in evidence, but they were fading fast, lost to body that was prone to getting sick; a body incapable of getting out to exercise. His wounds from the war were healing – though the vicious burn across his heart and shoulder never stopped hurting. The reason for his almost constant sickness and weakness was his own people.

"They're killing you, Gilbert," Toris said one day, watching the white haired man stare blankly out of the window in the room. Ivan's house was almost right in the middle of the city; apparently the Russian man enjoyed watching his people go about their business. If he looked far enough (impossibly far) Gilbert knew that he would be able to see his own country; his own people. But it was a dreary view anyway, and he closed his eyes; though Gilbert wasn't sure if that was the actuality of it, or he was just seeing things again. A lot of things looked grey to him these days.

"They don't know who I am," he rasped back, ignoring the telltale shake in one of his pale hands. "To be fair, Toris. I don't hold it against them."

"None of us ever do," the Baltic nation sighed, dropping himself into the only chair in the room. "But still… if there was anything I could do –"

"I wouldn't stop them fleeing even if I could. I would do the same, if I could run. I would turn towards Germany and never stop running." He was still speaking German; this time on purpose. He enjoyed breaking Ivan's little rules – and there were so many of them. The scarf that lay like a dead snake on his bed was one of them; one that he refused to obey if the Russian wasn't in the room. He wasn't fool enough to try Ivan's patience in person – not yet.

"Ivan isn't very happy about it, you know." Toris was speaking Russian – in an attempt to convince Gilbert to do the same, though he knew it was futile. The Prussian man knew the language well enough to at least speak it, but he still refused. "He was furious when the numbers came in… quite a few people are getting across, despite the wire and the guards."

Prussia laughed softly. "Humans will never fail to astound me… even in the worst of situations; they find a way to fight back." A fond smile – one he rarely wore – flickered across his face momentarily. "I hope as many of them as possible get across, before he finds a more permanent way of sealing us off."

A knock on the door interrupted them. Gilbert turned from the window, and shared a confused look with Toris. The one person likely to visit them wouldn't bother to knock – he normally just barged right in. Shrugging, Toris stood and walked to the door, pulling it open. The tension in his shoulders evaporated almost instantly.

"Latvia," he said by way of explanation, pulling the door open further so that Gilbert could see the short Baltic who stood in the doorway. "Come inside… We were just talking."

"I'm not staying… sorry to interrupt, but –" Latvia paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Russia just got home. He isn't in a very good mood." His eyes flickered to Gilbert, standing by the window. "I think he said something about giving you a tour, Gilbert. Now that you're strong enough to walk, I mean."

"… A tour?" The German Democratic Republic raised an eyebrow, and looked at Toris for clarification.

Lithuania shrugged. "It isn't anything too terrifying, other than that you have to spend some time in Ivan's company. He just wants to show you the house, so that when he assigns you work you'll know where to go. But if he's angry… Gilbert, don't try anything." The Baltic nation moved forward, picking the scarf up off the bed, and offering it to the other. "Just grit your teeth and do what he wants, and it'll be a lot less painful."

"As nice as it is to have people announce my presence, I think Gilbert can figure things out for himself, da?"

The voice made everyone in the room freeze, except for Prussia. The white haired man merely snatched the red scarf from Toris, winding it around his neck with a scowl. It was so long it nearly dragged on the floor – clearly it had been made to fit a taller man.

"Latvia," Ivan said, glancing down at the small nation standing just in front of him in the doorway. "Go find something for me."

The smallest of the Baltic nations shuddered. "W – What do you want me to get, Ivan?" he said, not entirely succeeding in hiding the tremor in his voice.

"I don't know," the Russian said back, eyes growing dark. "Why don't you go figure that out, da?"

Latvia took the hint, and the opportunity to escape, scrambling out the door, dodging around Ivan's bulk, and vanishing down the hallway. Toris watched him go with a distant expression. Out of all of them, Latvia was the more afraid of Ivan, because the Russian was good at sensing weakness – he was like a shark that way. He just homed in on it and kept on pressing until his victim just gave up. Latvia hadn't always been so shaky and nervous.

"And you, Lithuania." Russia moved into the room, and gave Toris a look. "I appreciate your attempts to educate our newest family member on how to act, but from now on you can refrain from doing so, da? Gilbert and I don't want your interference."

"M – my apologies, Ivan." Toris ducked his head, eyes fixed on the floor.

"I can speak for myself," Prussia said shortly, moving away from the window. "Don't lump my awesome self with _your_ ugly mug."

Russia simply ignored the comment. "Come on, little GDR. I want to show you around – my house is quite a bit larger than yours ever was, and I don't want to come find you if you get lost."

Prussia snorted, but apparently found that a sufficient expression of his scorn, as he said nothing else. "Sorry about the soup," he added to Toris as he passed. The red scarf nearly dragged on the floor as he walked, and it stood out against his abnormally pale skin like a bloodstain.

Ivan put an arm around Gilbert's shoulder – from anyone else, it would have been a friendly gesture. Russia, on the other hand, was putting a significant amount of his not so insubstantial weight into it. Gilbert still wasn't nearly as strong as he had been before everything had gone wrong, and his knees nearly buckled under the sudden pressure. Instinctively, the nation grabbed out at the nearest thing – and found himself clinging to a smirking Ivan.

"Cut the crap, Braginski. Give me the damn tour and spare me your stupid attempts to confirm your nonexistent dominance," the white haired man spat, shoving away from the Russian in disgust. He stalked out the door – though the gesture would have been more effective if he wasn't still walking slowly.

"Ivan… he's not healed," Toris said quietly, raising his eyes to meet Ivan's purple. The Russian simply smiled back. "He's still weak, even if he doesn't act like it –"

"I know, Litva. I know." He turned away, clomping towards the door. He paused in the entranceway, to the accompaniment of several foul words on Gilbert's part about how stupid Russians should get their arses moving if they wanted to drag him out on house tours. "But he will learn the same thing that you did. That I will not be defied or denied, and I will make him scream and bleed until he understands that he is nothing. Until the man everyone knew as Prussia is dead and buried, and I have a perfect new family member, da?"

The words were said so softly that Toris nearly didn't catch them – but there was such pleasure, and such malice in Ivan's tone that a shiver ran down his back, and his eyes returned to the floor. By the time he looked up, Russia had vanished – his footsteps farther down the hall. Lithuania assumed Prussia was still there; the other's steps were too light to hear. When he was sure they were down the stairs, he softly shut the door and sank onto the edge of the bed. The scars on his back were tingling, and it took conscious effort to stop the shaking in his hands.

"_Shit_," he whispered to himself, and wasn't surprised to hear it come out in Russian. It had become such a habit that – well, half the time he had to consciously _think_ to use his own language. "_Shit, shit, shit…_" He wasn't going to cry. It had been a long time since the Baltic nation had shed tears – Toris himself didn't think he had any left. Ivan had seen to that.

"I'm getting too old for this," he murmured, twisting his hands around in his lap, staring blankly at his fingers. "Too old to watch him destroy another nation…" Toris himself had been the first – but he had stood by when Ivan had gotten his hands on Eduard and Raivis. Sitting there, in that too quiet room, Lithuania felt something in him harden; a resolve that he had long since forgotten about.

_Gilbert might be an insufferable ass, but that's just who he is. I won't let Russia rob him of that – not like he did to the rest of us._

It was a silent promise, in that room, to keep Prussia as sane as possible; as _himself_ as possible, until Germany was able to get him back – until he was gone from here.

**

* * *

**

Gilbert was in the lead of their walking only until he reached the bottom of the stairs; and this was only because the stairs were too narrow for Ivan to push by without pitching him over the railing. (Though Gilbert was pretty sure Ivan wasn't above doing just that.) There was no sign of the other inhabitants of the house – apparently the other two nations had made themselves scarce; not that Prussia could blame them.

At the base of the stairs, however, he felt Ivan's hand on his shoulder again, halting his movement forward.

"I know where the front entrance is, Russia. I'm not stupid," he said, trying to shove the hand off, ignoring the twinge of pain this sent up his injured side. Though the infection was gone, and the burns had faded, the tissue was still tender.

A moment later, Gilbert let out a surprised yelp as the hand closed painfully tight, and the larger nation spun him around, slamming his body into the wall beside the stairs. Russia leaned in, until their noses were almost touching. Prussia was abruptly conscious of the fact that his feet weren't touching the floor, and that it was awkward trying to breath.

"What am I to do with you?" Ivan's voice was low and dangerous. "I carry you to my house; I heal you, and how do you repay me?" His free hand reached out to run along the bandages still on Gilbert's face. "By _fading_ more each day."

_What the hell is he – Ah._ Gilbert's face cracked into a darkly gleeful smile, and he abruptly forgot the discomfort of the current position. "My people aren't curling up under your rule the way you thought they would, are they?" He laughed dryly. "They're escaping in droves back over to the West, and there isn't a damn thing your barbed wire and your guards can do about it, is there?"

Ivan shook him like a dog would shake a toy. "Da, your people are headstrong and stupid; too blind to see the good my country will do for them."

"Right – like the good you've done for the Baltics? It's no secret that their people hate you too, Ivan. No one _welcomes_ your rule; nothing _good_ comes out of having your nose ground into the dirt by some filthy Communist _boot_." That wild grin only grew wider. "I hope my people keep running; and I _know_ they will. The Prussians have never been ones to give up, no matter what the odds."

"You don't see it, do you?" Ivan's lips curled into a smirk, and Gilbert felt a slight twinge of foreboding sneak its way into his happy mood. "Da, I think you are just as blind as your people… though their ignorance can be forgiven, at least. Yours, not so much."

Gilbert's hands reached up to grasp about the fist curled into the scarf around his neck, trying to pry the massive fingers apart. Another reason to hate the red item – it gave Russia far to easy a handhold on him."Don't be vague, Russia," he said sharply, grin vanished. "Just say it – I can tell you're enjoying the thought."

"What do you think is keeping you alive, you stupid, ignorant shadow of a nation? Did you think it was your stubbornness alone? Da, I can see that you did." Ivan laughed, and it wasn't pleasant. "_I_ am the only thing keeping you from fading into nothing. _I_ chose to let you become a new nation under me when you were given to me. I _could_ have simply made you an extension of Russia, but I felt… merciful. We have not always been enemies, you and I, da? I considered it a… favor to an old friend, my little German Democratic Republic."

There was a long silence, in which Russia's smile became even smugger – but it was wiped from his face an instant later as Gilbert did something quite unexpected – the white haired man simply laughed in his face. He stopped trying to loosen Russia's grip, and simply hung there, shaking.

"You think that _matters_? You think I _care_ if I fade? Damn it, Ivan, for being one of the strongest nations, you're pretty fucking _dense_." Gilbert chuckled again, the grin back. "If _that_ was all you dragged me out of my room and gave me a headache to tell me, can I go back now?"

Ivan's confident expression faltered a bit – evidently this wasn't the reaction he had been gleefully anticipating. "I – what?" The laughter had startled the menacing tone out of his voice, and for a moment he almost sounded human.

Prussia rolled his eyes, and wiped at imaginary tears of laughter. "I've come to terms with the fact that dying would be better than living here with you." This time it was he who leaned in closer, red eye flashing with sudden malicious delight. "That's right, Ivan. I'd rather be _dead_ than living in your house. I'm sure your other "family members" would agree with me, at least as far as the Baltics are concerned."

A heavy, consuming silence reigned for a second that stretched into a year. Russia seemed rather taken aback at Gilbert's word – though the Prussian was surprised himself that they had had such an impact. Then the frozen moment was shattered, like a fist through glass – or, more accurately, Prussia being hoisted higher and slammed into the wall behind him. The white haired man let out a sharp gasp as the air rushed out of his lungs, struggling for air that wouldn't come. Ivan's hands were curled around his neck now, cutting off his ability to breathe. There was a strangely manic look to his violet eyes – moreso than usual.

"You are a _rude_ little nation, GDR," the larger man snarled. His voice was deep again, but there was a subtle, angrier note to it than there had in previous times. "I will teach you manners." He slammed Prussia back again, ignoring the other's increasingly red cheeks and frantic struggles against his grip. "You will learn to _respect_ my family and I. You will learn to_ like_ living here – by the time I am done with you, you won't _want_ to return home to your precious weakling little brother." Ivan's face twisted cruelly. "I'll _make_ sure of it. Either voluntarily you will remain at my side, or I will make you so ashamed to be _alive_ that you won't want _anyone but me_ to see how far you've fallen, and how pathetic you've let yourself become."

He abruptly let go of the thrashing nation, and Gilbert crumpled unceremoniously to his knees, gulping down air. Red spots had appeared on his bandages again, and one of his hands reached up to touch his neck, as if the violent grip had hurt. Most probably it had.

"You can't _make_ someone to want to be near you, Ivan," Gilbert spat, glaring up at the other through his hair. "You can't make them _like_ you."

Roughly, the Russian man grabbed Gilbert's arm, wrenching the other to his feet with a pained yelp. "You make the mistake of thinking I _need_ you to like me," he hissed venomously, starting to drag the other down the hallway. "You of all people should know – isolation makes a nation _stronger_."

Prussia struggled to pull away from Ivan's grip, ignoring what the other was saying. Eventually he gave up his struggles in favour of keeping his arm firmly in its socket where it belonged. "You're a lousy tour guide," he muttered under his breath instead, watching doors pass by – nearly tripping over another flight of stairs as Russia dragged him down them with no warning. "Where the hell are you _taking_ me, anyway?"

The other man glanced coldly over his shoulder. "I am taking you to your new room." And then he looked back around, and picked up his pace.

Gilbert instantly noticed the temperature change. He assumed they were in the basement; and of course it was close to freezing. Russia didn't want to waste energy warming a part of his house that he, by the looks of the dusty stairs, rarely used. The first alarming realization the Prussian man had was that he could see his breath, faintly, whenever he exhaled.

"You've got to be kidding me," he breathed as Ivan finally halted at the bottom of the long flight. The basement was large – but this door had a strange sense of foreboding about it.

Ivan put a key into the lock – it locked from the outside, Gilbert noted pointedly – and pushed the door open. There was a creaking of hinges, as if the door itself was reluctant to open. Gilbert could barely see into the space beyond, but before he could say much, Ivan's hand on his back propelled him forward. The cement floor was cold, even through his shoes. His breath plumed out in front of him in a white cloud, and he couldn't hold back a shiver. There was only one window in this room – a tiny square, well out of his reach. The light it let in was feeble, barely even worth the attempt it was making.

"I can choose to be generous, da, or I can choose not to be." Ivan was standing in the doorframe, blocking any escape. The key bounced in his palm. "You have made it plain that you do not want my hospitality, so here you are. This is your room now. Lithuania or myself will bring you food. Otherwise you are not to leave."

"You're fucking _kidding_," Prussia spat, staring around the room. A bed – barely worthy of being called that, as it was merely a glorified mattress – a few sheets that looked thin even from where he was standing, and a rickety desk that was about ready for the trash heap, and a matching chair. A broken looking lamp hunched there, looking as if it would much rather be someplace else. A tiny patch of ice was growing on the ceiling near the window. The walls were plain grey, a few cracks running through them. "You can't expect me to _live _here, Ivan; the cold alone will kill me."

A cruel smirk appeared on Russia's face. "All the better for you… after all, since you'd rather be dead than be in my company… I hope you enjoy your stay."

And with that, Ivan turned and pulled the door shut behind him. Gilbert remained standing in the center of the room even as his light was significantly reduced; even as the key scraped in the lock; even as he heard the finalizing tromp of Ivan's boots going up the stairs, fading until they were gone. Absently, his hands reached up – wrenching the red scarf from around his neck and casting it to the floor with one violent motion. Out of the corner of his eye, it looked like blood. For a long while, he stood there, hands and feet slowly growing numb, staring blankly at the spot where the Russian man had been.

Eventually the cold got to him enough that the Prussian had to seek refuge on the mattress – at least it had a bed frame. There were a few blankets piled on top, and he pulled them about his frame, trying to stop the shivers. He shut his eyes in an attempt to pretend that none of this was happening – that he was not freezing, that he was not missing West so much it was painful; that he had not seen that flash of hurt in Russia's eyes at his comments, the flash that had for a moment made the other human. Made Prussia regret, for a brief second, his harsh words. The regret was gone now – replaced by a dull feeling of disbelief.

"This isn't happening," Gilbert whispered to himself, trying to ignore the way the room seemed to swallow his voice. "This can't be happening." He tugged the blankets closer. "It's 1772… I'm with Old Fritz… we're finally unifying… Mark(1) is being irritating, but we're together, and for the first time I'm not alone…"

His words trailed off into incoherent mumbling. Overall, there was a desperate sense of relief – he hadn't been sure that Ivan would buy his bluff. Because if he were to admit it to himself, Gilbert was scared out of his mind. He didn't want to die – not like this, wasting slowly away under the control of another. It wasn't how a warrior was supposed to die.

And then, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Prussia allowed himself tears. He let the selfish, salty liquid trickle from the corners of his eyes, a silent tribute to how terrified he was, of how he missed home and West and _everything_ he was no longer allowed to have.

**

* * *

**

(1) This is referring to the division of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, which was ratified by Frederick II of Prussia. In actuality, Prussia got the smallest part of the division, but it brought the country together – uniting East Prussia and Brandenburg for the first time.

Mark is an OC, obviously, and is the personified version of Brandenburg – which was also known as the_ March of Brandenburg, _or _Mark Brandenburg_ in German, if Wikipedia isn't misleading me.

_**A/N: I dislike this chapter. It didn't want to be written, so I feel like I've forced it. Hooray timeskips, and Gilbert's mouth. I apologize for the swearing in this chapter. It seemed like something he'd do. =.= **_

**_I'm about halfway through chapter six. I'm sure every other author has told you the same, but with the start of school, updates will be considerably slower. Like this one was. (though that was my stupid fault, not schoolwork...) I hope the fact that it's the longest chapter to date makes up for it a bit. _**

**_Germany will (probably) be back next chapter._**


	6. Letters and Meetings

**Soluble Chapter Six: Letters and Meetings**

_"Everything which the enemy least expects will succeed the best."_

- Frederick the Great**  
**

**

* * *

**

Over the next few weeks, things fell into a steady routine for Gilbert – either Lithuania or Russia would bring him upstairs for breakfast in the morning. It was usually Russia, but by morning Prussia was so cold that he could hardly bring himself to care. After eating – which usually involved him wolfing down his meager food before Ivan could decide that he'd had enough – he was carted off to a tiny desk in Ivan's office.

That was probably the worst time – he had to sit there and read and sign documents dealing with the management of his country; it was only a courtesy, really. Ivan dealt with any major decisions. Gilbert's signature was there simply to provide the illusion that he was going along with everything the Russian decided for him, not because Ivan actually required his consent. The aforementioned nation was sometimes there, sometimes not. Often the Russian attempted conversation – idle chatter about little things – but all he ever received was a stony silence. Prussia knew that he had to do what Ivan wanted him to, but that didn't extend to making small talk.

The bandage had finally come off of his face – and the damage wasn't as terrible as he had been imagining. The injury was still a dull red, but it was fading fast. His eye looked entirely normal – except for the fact that Gilbert couldn't see much with it. Occasionally, if he really strained himself, the white haired man could catch faint, fuzzy outlines of objects very close to his face. More often than not, he didn't bother. It hurt, both in the physical and mental sense.

After part of the day had elapsed, someone would come up to fetch him for lunch – one of the Baltics, mostly, if Russia himself wasn't in the room with him. Ivan had a weird thing about them all eating around the same table. Lunch was another rushed meal for Gilbert – he _had_ had food taken away from in front of him, and he had since learned to eat what little he was given as fast as he could. But despite the food, he was noticing a definite thinness to himself – he had always been slight, but he had never before been able to see his ribs.

The second half of the day was filled with chores – as meaningful or as pointless as Ivan chose to make them. Often it w as just cleaning the massive house; though Gilbert was soon barred entrance to the more ornate rooms, as he had a nasty habit of messing thing up. This had earned him many bruises, and assignment to the dingier, less attractive parts of Russia's dwelling. There were a surprising number of them.

By the time it was dark out – when Russia considered it too late to continue doing work – they were all dragged back to the kitchen for dinner, and the usual routine concerning food. Sometimes Ivan let them go to the living room, and they would stay up quite late. The Baltics usually played cards, or read. At first Gilbert had done nothing – not sure how to react. But Estonia had come up to him one night and wordlessly handed him a book. Since then, Prussia had been rapidly reading his way through the not insignificant number of books on the shelves.

But some days Russia didn't let Gilbert join in – he was shuttled off to his room in the basement right after eating. Those nights were the worst – and invariably the coldest, as Russia seemed to plan them according to when the weather was at its worst. As a result, Gilbert was developing a permanent chest cough – one that sounded unpleasant and robbed him of all air when he had to double over, hacking.

"Stupid commie…" the nation muttered, turning a page in a long, tedious document. "He's going to kill me by exposure before I ever get back to West…" He wasn't even reading the words anymore – he wasn't even sure what the papers were talking about; probably yet another law or plan that Ivan had for the Republic, in order to keep them in line, or give them the illusion there was still hope.

People were still escaping over the border – in fewer numbers than in the beginning, as the guards had finally gotten themselves organized. It was making Gilbert permanently weak – most of the muscle he had had during the war was gone, leaving him much weaker than he could remember being. And yet the less steady his hands his hands grew, the more frequent his headaches became, the happier he grew; at least internally. His people were safe; they were surviving. West would take care of them, since he himself was no longer in a position to do that.

With an aggravated sigh, Gilbert dropped the thick document onto his desk, staring at it in frustration. It wasn't like he ever put much effort into concentrating, but today his thoughts seemed particularly inclined to wander. With another sigh, he leaned forward, resting his head on his palm. As he sat there, staring blankly at the items strewn across his desk, the pen caught his eye. So too did the blank, white paper sitting on Ivan's desk. Gilbert wasn't permitted the luxury of having his own paper to write with – he was expected to sign things, and that was about it.

Glancing around furtively, the nation carefully stood, wincing as his chair dragged along the hardwood flooring. He didn't know where Ivan was today – it wasn't like the Russian deigned to tell _him_ such information – but it was always a safe bet to be cautious. The huge nation had a disturbing habit of popping out of places where you least expected him to. In one quick movement he had reached the desk and taken two of the precious sheets, and stolen back to his own seat.

He listened for a moment, head tilted, but since there was no clumping sound, Gilbert figured he was safe. Turning back to the paper, he pulled his chair in and reached for the pen, something close to a grin twitching the corners of his lips briefly.

_West – _

_ I know, I know, I should have written sooner. I was pretty sick when I got here though, and I was too busy being unconscious to write you. You've been looking after Gilbird, right? If you run out of seed, I think there's some in the glove box of your car. You can buy more at that pet store where you buy all that stuff for your dogs. Speaking of dogs, how's Apache shaping up with the rest of them? I know you weren't too enthusiastic about getting a husky._

_ Ok, enough with this boring drivel. I'm getting on alright – I'm still a bit stiff and sore from the results of the war, but otherwise I'm healing up nicely. The food's not too bad, but I'm getting tired of this Russian shit. Send me a care package, would you? I want German food. Even if I do have to suffer through your horrendous cooking._

_ I'm sure you're hearing all sorts of terrible rumors about what's going on over here – I know Poland enjoys telling horror stories, and from what I gather he isn't too happy with us to begin with. Don't believe it. Russia's weird, and still scary as hell (don't tell anyone I said that) but he isn't as terrible as everyone makes him out to be._

Gilbert paused, reading over the words. It took him a moment to realize what had flowed from under his pen, and he nearly crumpled the page. Ludwig didn't need to know what was going on his side of the wall; his younger brother had enough to worry about, and Gilbert didn't want to add his own personal misery to the top of that pile. What Germany didn't know wouldn't hurt him – so long as Russia or one of the Baltics didn't let on at any of the world meetings.

_ If you see him at the world meetings, he's just being an ass for the sake of it. Ignore what he tells you. I'm alive and coherent enough to write a letter, so nothing too horrible can be happening, right? (I mean, other than the fact that I'm actually writing to you, which is unusual in itself…) So don't get all pissy and defensive; all you'll do is confirm my suspicion that you do, in fact, lack a penis…_

_ Your personal issues aside, I hope you aren't moping around the house acting depressed and lost without me. You're freaking Germany, and if you give our people a bad name, I swear I'm never going to forgive you. Show a strong face even in defeat, little brother. Grit your teeth and make it through. I don't know what the terms they gave you were when you surrendered – obviously they're a bit different than mine._

"Yeah, 'cause I had to bloody give myself over to the Russian bastard to keep you safe," Prussia growled under his breath. There was no regret in his words – Ludwig was his sibling, and he had to do whatever he could to protect him. Besides, the younger Germanic nation had gone through enough in the past few decades without needing Ivan lumped in with it all. He was a willing sacrifice – and Ludwig was never to know the truth of his older brother's situation.

_We'll be seeing each other sooner than you know. You'd better have the fridge stocked with beer when I get back, because I plan on getting myself so stone drunk I don't remember how to breathe. Ivan doesn't have any decent German alcohol here. All he's got is his shitty Russian water here. And he won't let me have it, either. I'm not above taking it from him without his permission regardless, but vodka isn't exactly my favoured poison._

_ Anyway. If you get the chance, write me? It's dreadfully boring here. All I do is sign papers and pretend that I'm of some significance to the world. Which, as Ivan has pointedly informed me, I am not. Also, send me some gloves or something, would you? It's fucking freezing in this house… Russia never turns on the heat unless he has to._

_ Keep yourself busy. This'll pass over soon enough. You'll be yelling at me t o get my feet off of the table, and to clean up my mess in no time. And I'll be ignoring your suggestions, just like I always do._

_ Your brother,_

_ Gilbert._

Prussia put the pen down, staring at the words scrawled across the previously pristine page in his messy handwriting. The ink had blotched in several spots; he was sure Ludwig would notice the way his pen had pressed in too hard, nearly ripping the paper, when he mentioned this being over soon. He wasn't sure about his younger brother (he had always been slightly more naive than Prussia himself, who had been around too long to believe in the base goodness of people), but Gilbert had the nasty feeling that this wasn't going to be a short, easily solved issue. It felt like other times had; back when he had been younger and bound to the whims of those stronger than himself. It wasn't anything tangible – it was more of something in the air. As if his status as a country enabled him to _know_ these things that others could not.

A knock on the door nearly made him jump out of his skin.

Hastily he shoved the blank paper into one of the drawers on his desk, and dropped the letter into his lap, pulling his chair closer to the desk to hide it. It took a moment for it to occur to him that, had his visitor actually been Russia, he would not have bothered to knock on the door of his own office.

"Come in," he said, raising his voice slightly.

The door opened to reveal Toris, wearing a coat and carrying a sheaf of papers in one hand. The Baltic looked a mixture of thrilled and terrified, which made for a strange expression on his face.

Gilbert leaned back with something that was almost a relieved sound, the muscles in his frame relaxing slightly. One hand idly rolled the corner of the red scarf he was wearing around as the two of them considered each other for a moment. "Where're you off to?" he asked eventually, as Toris didn't seem much inclined to say anything.

"Didn't Ivan tell you?" It wasn't a question worth asking – Ivan never told anyone anything unless he felt that they needed to know it. "There's a World Meeting today. Someone called it unexpectedly – he's not very happy about it, but no one knows who requested it. I'm going along, and so are Latvia and Estonia."

The white haired man perked up a little bit. "Any chance that I'll –" The words died at the flicker in Toris's expression. "No. Didn't think I'd be allowed."

The other nation made an apologetic grimace. "He's just about to come upstairs. I just thought I should tell you before you found out from him and tried to throw something at him."

The smile that Prussia produced was merely a flicker. "I don't suppose I'll be allowed to stay up here while you're gone, will I?" His tone was humorless and empty.

Lithuania shook his head. "N – no. I don't think so." A moment of silent, shared pain. Toris was, perhaps, the only one who could say that he knew what Gilbert was feeling; the other two Baltics had been shielded from much of Ivan's wrath by his personal intervention and sacrifice. "He's coming to collect his work, and I guess to… take you back to your room."

"Do you know how long you'll be gone?" It was unlikely that he would get food – or released from that frigid, basement room with the locks on the outsides of the doors – if Ivan and the three other inhabitants were gone.

"Gilbert – It's going to last a while, I think. If everyone is coming out. Even Kiku is going to go, apparently, and you know what a terrible state _he_ was in after the war."

An idea struck the white haired nation, suddenly, even as his ears picked up the sound of Ivan's heavy boots clomping up the wooden stairs. He moved out from behind his desk, the piece of paper clutched in his hands. It was shaking, but that in itself was nothing significant – his hands always had a tremor in them these days.

"Can you do me a favour?" His voice was low, rapid, and the words stumbled over one another in their haste to get out before Ivan came and ripped them from his throat.

Something must have shown in his expression, because Lithuania's eyes grew dark in that way they did when he was worried. "Uh – sure?" He certainly didn't' sound it.

"It's not hard." Gilbert pressed the letter at the Baltic nation, red eyes flicking to the hallway behind the door. Ivan had stopped moving, and Gilbert could just catch him straightening a painting on the wall by the stairs. "Just – just find a way to get this to Ludwig. I'll do anything. I don't care how you do it… just make sure that he gets it. Please."

Toris hesitated, and it was with good reason, too. If Ivan were to find out about this – not that the letter revealed anything of the treatment Gilbert was undergoing, though Lithuania couldn't know that – the repercussions for even the messenger could be severe. The Russian was not a believer in the policy of "don't harm the messenger." He bit his lip, glanced over his shoulder once, and then before Prussia could react properly, snatched the piece of paper and had shuffled it in with the others he was carrying.

"I'll do what I can. I won't promise that he'll get it, but I'll do my best to see that your brother has this in his hands by the time the meetings conclude."

"Toris –"

Lithuania shook his head. "Don't thank me until I get the job done. You're not alone here, Gilbert. I want you to remember that."

"I hate to break up such a lovely little gathering, but since the GDR has done me the favour of already not doing work, I think we should carry on as fast as possible, da?" Ivan's voice tore through the moment of silence, and the two of them turned away from each other with no more words. The exchange, for all intents and purposes, had never happened.

Prussia glanced at Ivan; he wasn't entirely convinced that the Russian had missed their furtive exchange. The man had an uncanny ability to creep up on everyone. His eyes slid back to Lithuania, who was standing there, shifting nervously. The elder Baltic wouldn't be able to lie to save his life, Gilbert knew, and if Ivan got a chance to interrogate him before they left, the letter would never reach Ludwig –

"You're not stuffing me down there," he growled, glaring at Ivan. "Especially not if you're going away. I'm going to starve, and you know it!"

"The meeting will not be long, GDR. We will be back long before you would die of starvation or cold, da? Stop whining." Russia moved forward, as if to grab the other nation. Gilbert apparently took the sudden space in the doorway between Lithuania and Ivan as an escape opportunity. The white haired man lunged forward.

Toris let out a yelp and nearly dropped his papers at the sudden movement. Ivan, on the other hand, was hardly fazed. The blond man waited until Prussia was nearly at the door, before one of his massive hands lashed out, grabbing him by the back of his collar. He hauled Gilbert back into the room, the smaller man choking as Ivan drew him close.

"Don't try to run away," the Russian said softly. One massive arm pressed Prussia's back into his chest. The other buried itself in the nation's white hair and yanked his head back so their eyes met. "I don't like disobedient family members. They must be punished."

"I've noticed," Gilbert spat, in German just because he could. The words earned him a sharp yank on his hair, which bent his neck at a painful angle.

"Lithuania, make sure that the others are ready to leave. I'm going to get Gilbert here set up before we head out." Without waiting for a reply, the massive nation tightened his grip on Prussia's hair, and proceeded to yank him out of the room.

Gilbert managed to catch Toris's eye as he was hauled past. There was a meaningful spark in his red eyes – the "escape attempt" had been to distract Ivan from the exchange that had happened. Whatever the Russian chose to do to him was what he was willing to sacrifice to have a single letter delivered to his brother.

**

* * *

**

"Get moving." At the top of the stairs leading down to Prussia's "room," Ivan pushed him forward and finally let go of his hair.

Gilbert rubbed his aching scalp, and glared back. His original purpose had been to distract the Russian, but now he was taking pleasure in pissing the other off as much as possible before he left. "Make me," he said, in German again, grinning darkly.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten one key point about his opponent – Ivan Braginski was not a reasonable, rational being. When he was told to make someone do something, the violet eyed nation had no qualms about doing just that. Gilbert felt the hand on the small of his back a moment before he found the ground falling out from under him. His arms flailed, but Ivan's shove had overbalanced him too far; he remembered to relax his body an instant before his cheek connected with the cold stone steps with an explosion of sharp, biting pain. With a yelp, the Prussian tumbled all the way down the stairs, landing in a heap at the bottom.

Ivan took the more conventional way down, and reached down to where Gilbert was struggling to force himself to his feet. The Russian grabbed his head, and with a snarl of anger, smashed it into the door that led to Gilbert's room. It wasn't locked – it never was when Gilbert himself was not in there – so it opened on contact, but it was quite a solid door. Groaning, the white haired man staggered as Ivan pushed him, falling forward onto the bare cement floor.

"You have tried my patience again and again," Ivan said, and there was nothing childish or cheerful about his voice this time. His violet eyes had grown dark and unreadable, and anger practically crackled off of him. "I have fed you. I have clothed you. I have allowed you to exist, _at my own personal expense_, and you repay me with _rebellion _and _ungratefulness_. I have been _tolerant_."

With each emphasized word, Russia illustrated his point by sharply kicking Prussia, who curled further in on himself with each blow. When he was done, Ivan was breathing slightly harder than normal, and Gilbert was hardly moving at all. The whole episode had taken only a few minutes, but there was a look in Ivan's eyes that said he wasn't done yet. Gilbert raised his head. His cheek was split, and blood ran down his cheek. His breathing was ragged and wet sounding; something was broken. Already an ugly bruise was forming on the side of his head.

"Tolerant? You call what _you_ are _tolerant_? You're a fucking _lunatic_." His red eyes narrowed, his head tilted to the side even now to compensate for the lack of vision in the one. With careful deliberateness, the Prussian man spat a gob of blood on the floor at Ivan's boots. "That's what I think of your _tolerance."_

Ivan's round face twisted, and became something almost inhuman. With a silent snarl, the Russian lunged forward. Gilbert tried to recoiled, but the pain in his middle prevented him from moving quickly. Out of nowhere, a metal pipe appeared in the larger nation's hands. An insane glint had appeared in his eyes, and with one violent motion, the Russian smashed the pipe into the side of Gilbert's head.

The crack seemed to echo throughout the room. Prussia froze for a moment. His eyes widened comically, his mouth opened slightly, and then he fell back. As he hit the floor, a crumpled heap, he didn't move again. Ivan hoisted the pipe, its end stained with flecks of blood, and looked down upon the unconscious nation, a grim expression on his face.

"I will break you," he said softly, the words echoing in the room. His breath plumed before him in a sinister white curl. "I will break every bone in your body, if that is what it takes to break your mind. You will be mine. You will not disrupt this family."

The Russian turned, coat flaring, but Ivan paused at the door. For a moment, a flicker of something passed over the mask of anger he was wearing. It seemed that, for a brief instant, he was going to go back, pick the fallen nation off of the floor. The look was gone a second later, as he stepped out of the cold room and slammed the door.

**

* * *

**

Matthew shifted nervously in his seat. Despite the fact that no one was actually paying much attention to him, he could feel the atmosphere crackling with tension. He looked over the table, a silent plea with his eyes to his brother, Alfred. For the first time since his Civil War, the boisterous American nation was sitting quietly, rocking in his seat as if being silent caused him physical pain. His face was white, and his mouth pinched in at the corners, though this was more likely because of the nation sitting across from him.

Kiku Honda, representative of Japan, had been brought to the meeting; _brought_, because China had had to bring the battered nation in a wheelchair. The quiet young man was sitting at the table, hands carefully folded in his lap, sitting very straight. It would have been almost natural, actually, had it not been for the bandages wrapped around his eyes. Japan was, for all purposes, blind. The Asian nations weren't sure how well he would recover. He wasn't even wearing his usual uniform; rather, a very loose shirt, under which Matthew knew there were reams of bandages. And under _those_, he also knew, were the horrific injuries. America wasn't, therefore, paying any attention to his younger brother..

Matthew really wished he would – of all of the nations currently at this meeting, he was the closest to imminent death. If any other nation was in his place, he knew, someone would have rushed to his aid long before. If Romano had been in his seat right now, Spain would have been bending over backwards to get the Italian nation somewhere, _anywhere_, else. Canada supposed that was why no one had done anything yet – they could pretend he was invisible.

Still, as he sank further down in his seat, afraid to rustle his papers lest it cause an explosion, Matthew wished that fate had seen fit to have anyone else, _anyone_, besides Germany and Russia to choose to sit on opposite sides of him.

The latter was sitting rigidly – so rigidly that it looked like his back was on the verge of breaking – and very properly. His blue eyes were fixed forward, refusing to look to the side. No one had yet dared to comment on the little yellow bird sitting on top of his head; it was likely to assure an abrupt and forceful separation of one's head. Matthew could see the leather gloves the large nation always wore stretching with tension as his hands clenched and unclenched, as if imagining them strangling something – or someone.

Russia, for his part, was sitting there as if there was nothing wrong. He was even reclining in his chair, and perhaps this was the reason that Ludwig looked ready to commit homicide. Ivan had even walked in humming a little tune, his three pet nations trailing in behind him. Each of them, Matthew had noted, looked extremely uncomfortable to be there – especially Lithuania, who was on Russia's far side. He kept on glancing over at Germany and shuffling his papers, looking nervous and apprehensive, as if expecting the blond nation to lash out at him.

"So… er… should we get this… started?" England's voice finally broke the silence that had fallen over the entire table; the quiet liberally smeared with guilt coming from Alfred's side, and the heavily charged air from the other end. The nations trapped in between looked almost relieved to hear that they were that much closer to getting out for the day.

Arthur looked a bit unnerved to have such undivided attention, with no one trying to interrupt. "Alright," he coughed, shifting his papers a bit. "So, it's the usual process; we're going to be here for about a week, maybe a few days more, to go over numerous issues that have been called to attention. If no one has any objections, I'll open the floor to –"

"I have an objection." Even Ludwig's voice sounded like it was about to snap in half. His blue eyes were narrow as he glared as England, who shifted self consciously. "There is an empty seat at this table." And there was – right next to him, because no one else had wanted to get near to an irate Germany. "We never start meetings without all nations present, so that all may voice their concerns."

"Er – well, I'm sure – there's no standard _rule_ –" England wasn't sure how to respond. There wasn't much he could say to the irate German; it had been his own boss, after all, who had been one of the ones all in favour of giving Prussia away. Arthur himself hadn't agreed entirely, but he knew that Germany wasn't thinking logically at the moment.

"I would like to inquire about this as well." This stiff, cold comment came surprisingly from Francis – or perhaps not so surprising, judging by the stormy look Spain (sitting beside him) had on his face as well. The three of them had been good friends. "But let us not misplace blame." His eyes turned to stare at Russia, and Canada was surprised to see hardness in them that the Frenchman rarely exhibited. "So where is Prussia, Ivan?"

The arctic nation sat up in his chair, and folded his hands, looking around the table slowly. "Prussia is dead," he said simply, and smiled. Ludwig jerked violently in his seat, and a ripple passed through the table. The Russian held up a hand to placate the other nations. "Gilbert Beilschmidt is well enough. But Prussia itself is no more. He is now the German Democratic Republic, and I would appreciate if he were to be addressed as such."

Germany snarled something under his breath in his native language that made Matthew wince. He looked like he wanted to reach over and strangle Ivan, and probably would have, if Toris hadn't taken that moment to stand.

"Everyone, please calm down." His voice was uncharacteristically firm. "Gilbert is fine." Even as he said it, Toris knew it was likely a lie – he hadn't seen what had happened in the basement room, but Ivan had been in a foul mood the entire way to Switzerland. "He is still fragile, and moving him might have caused undue damage. He'll try to be at the next meeting." It was a terrible lie to tell; with Japan sitting barely three meters away, bandaged and in a wheelchair, unable to move without pain, Gilbert should hardly be "too weak" to attend.

"There you are," England said abruptly, cutting off any further argument. He kept adjusting his tie, shifting from foot to foot, strangely twitchy. "So, if you'll all allow me to continue, I'd like to address the concerns that Turkey brought forward regarding –"

The meeting went on for the morning, but eventually the nations decided to break for lunch. They didn't actually need to eat to survive, but the room was becoming claustrophobic; Greece had even been unable to sleep by the end of it, an almost unheard of occurrence. A much harassed Arthur had eventually given in, and called an early lunch – there was no doubt that this break would be significantly longer than usual. No one wanted to go back in there. China wheeled Japan out again, murmuring something in the other's ear; no doubt they were headed back to the hotel. Kiku was in no shape to be trundling about downtown for lunch, as the others were. Russia disappeared shortly after the Asian nations had left; Matthew had grabbed Alfred by the collar and tugged until the American nation hauled himself out of his seat and trudged obediently off.

Eventually, Lithuania found himself alone in the room. He was reorganizing his notes, and hadn't expected everyone to leave quite so rapidly – though it was hardly a surprise. The room had been almost unbearable. He sighed, and pulled his coat off the back of his chair – and nearly ran right into Germany, who had been standing behind him.

"L – Ludwig!" The Baltic nation jumped backward, his legs hitting the edge of the table. "I – I thought you'd left with the others."

"I would have," the German man said shortly. "But you were staying behind. I want to talk to you where your Russian guard-dog can't hear."

Toris glanced nervously at the entrance to the conference room. "I – What about, Germany?" He tried to ignore how close the larger man was, and how trapped his current position made him.

"You know perfectly well _what about_, you lying little toad." Ludwig leaned closer. "You expect me to believe my brother is too _weak_ to come here, when Japan can't _breathe_ without pain and still comes? He was badly injured, but I know my brother. He would get here, come hell or high water, if he was able to. Which leaves me to wonder – just _what_ is being done to him in that house of yours?"

Toris glanced over his shoulder again. "I'm not going to tell you anything," he said softly, meeting those angry blue eyes; eyes that were searching for answers he knew that Gilbert wouldn't want him to give. It killed the Baltic to lie to Germany like this, to leave the other nation hanging without a scrap of news, but he knew Gilbert didn't want his younger brother to worry himself to death. "I have nothing to tell, in any case."

"Like _hell_ you don't." Germany leaned closer, eyes boring into Lithuania's. "I don't give a –"

"Would you _let_ me finish a sentence?" Toris couldn't bring himself to glare; the other's anger was justified. "_I_ have nothing to tell, but your brother _does_." He reached behind him, reaching to the bottom of his pile of papers, to that folded sheet tucked there. Wordlessly, the Baltic nation shoved it at Germany. "I can't be seen talking to you. But Gilbert wanted me to give that to you." He turned away, nearly whacking Germany in the face due to their proximity, and gathered up the rest of his pages. The stunned nation simply let Lithuania walk past, towards the door, staring after him, clutching the letter to his chest like it was gold.

Toris paused on his way out the door. "Ludwig… I want you to know something." The German nation blinked, but nodded. "He's not… he's not alone. And I'm doing everything I can." As he turned to leave, the Baltic nation caught sight of Germany sinking into one of the chairs, the letter shaking slightly as he read.

**

* * *

**

Eventually, the meetings came to a close; nothing of great political importance had been achieved, but everyone had gotten a sense of what was going on with the other nations. Kiku still wasn't talking much, least of all to Alfred, despite the blond nation's attempts to make conversation. His brothers were quite protective and especially standoffish near America. England and France were at odds again by the end of the week and a half the meetings had taken. Spain was still ignoring nearly everyone, and kept hounding Latvia (who didn't really know anything) for news on his lost friend. Germany had spent his speaking periods going entirely off topic and demanding that something be done about his brother; many of the nations present agreed with this, but with the Soviet Union acting like an innocent child, there was no _obvious_ reason to engage in an argument.

Canada spent the entire time being grateful for his ability to be forgotten by the other nations; he didn't want to get involved in anything, especially since tensions were so high.

"Well, thank you all for coming out," England said, breaking the tense silence into which the room had been falling quite frequently. "It was short notice, I know. We'll be having another large conference in a few months' time. Thank you Vash, for hosting us," he added.

The Swiss man just scowled. "Whatever. If any of you start fighting, you'd better make sure it isn't at my house. I don't want to be mopping up blood." No one laughed; there was a distinct sense that many of the nations were expecting some sort of confrontation.

"Of course not." Arthur's laugh was slightly strangled. "I'm sure everyone will conduct themselves in an appropriate fashion as they head home." His green gaze was directed specifically at Germany and Russia. Several of the other nations had had the sense to get between them, leaving a much larger space than there had been on the first day. That didn't really solve the problem; Ludwig had snapped a fair share of pens already, just due to looking at the Russian.

But England's words were the cue for everyone to start packing up their things. Many did so with plenty of haste, glad to be released at long last. Lithuania took his time about it, despite the pointed looks Russia threw his way every couple of minutes. He didn't _think_ he had acted untowardly suspicious throughout the meetings, having avoided Germany after delivering the letter; but today, the blond nation had sat himself down beside Toris, who hadn't had much choice in the matter.

"Here." Taking advantage of the moment Russia was taking to loom over Latvia, Germany shoved a neatly folded piece of paper across the table at Toris.

Without much choice, lest Ivan notice, Lithuania took it quickly and tucked it inside his jacket as he stood. "I can't play messenger, Ludwig," he said in an undertone, pretending to bend down and check his papers.

"I know. It puts you at risk." The German man was standing too, shoving everything into a briefcase. The bird sitting on his head cheeped slightly at the sudden move, flapping its wings to keep its balance. He shut it with a snap. "I won't ask you again."

"I'll see that he gets it." Toris offered a small smile, and that was that. They couldn't risk any more extended contact; Ivan would be suspicious enough with the two of them sitting together, however much it hadn't been Toris's choice.

Ludwig nodded quickly, and turned to leave. The German man let out a faint yelp as he nearly smacked right into Northern Italy, who had been standing right behind him. The brunette grinned up at the larger nation; he had been largely oblivious to the atmosphere at this meeting. Though he, too, showed signs of the war – a patch of gauze taped to his face, one hand wrapped in bandages from the fingers to somewhere near his shoulder – he wasn't letting that get him down.

"Ludwig! I haven't gotten to speak with you nearly all week~!" He looked about five seconds away from hugging the German man. "Are you and Lithuania planning something?"

Germany felt the bottom of his stomach drop. "N – No," he said brusquely, hand tightening around the handle of his briefcase. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Toris freezing in the act of moving away from the table, casting a nervous eye towards them. "We're not. Why don't you and I talk on the –"

"Why'd you pass him a note, then?" Feliciano looked up at Ludwig, unaware of the warning glare that he was receiving. "Right at the end of the meeting. It was all secret… if you're planning something –"

"Oh, dear Feliciano, I would have no doubt that they're _planning_ something."

The air suddenly seemed to get colder. Germany took in a deep breath, spotting Toris's eyes growing wide. A sudden presence at his shoulder made the blond man flinch away, turning defensively to face the bulk of the Russian nation who had appeared behind him. Apparently harassing Latvia was not enough to keep him occupied.

"It wasn't anything, Ivan," Ludwig ground out, brow furrowing as his blue eyes met purple. "So do me the favour of _not_ listening in on my conversations." Italy had fallen silent behind his friend, abruptly aware that he had, perhaps, said something that he should not have.

The Russian smiled, and it was not friendly. "It was most certainly something, _Ludwig_. I am not as stupid as you seem to think I am." His eyes slid to look over Germany's shoulder, to meet Toris's. "Come here, Lithuania. Now. Don't put those papers down."

Keeping his face carefully blank, the Baltic nation stepped up beside the other two. Their three to one situation wasn't making this any less frightening. "It really was nothing," he said quietly. "Germany wanted to borrow one of my notes from earlier –"

"Spare me the lies. He's spent the week trying to petition to get his brother back; not once has he shown interest in any of the issues we have been discussing." Russia held out a hand, indicating that Toris was to hand him the stack of papers. When the smaller nation hesitated, Ivan simply closed the distance between them and ripped them from his hands. "You see… the problem with letters…" he spoke as he flipped through the paper, dropping each one on the floor once he had considered it, "Is that they're… so very easily misplaced."

Finally he came to a crisp, folded rectangle in the middle of the stack. Russia dropped the rest of the papers with a soft _whoosh_, and considered it, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Germany stared at it with eyes that were nearly desperate. Ivan grinned, and held it between two hands. There was moment of silence that seemed to stretch into eternity between the two of them. Ludwig's eyes, wild and angry, Russia's smug and pleased.

With a strangled yell, Germany launched himself at the larger nation. Russia had precious little time to react, and took a hasty step backward, eyes gone wide with surprise. Toris tried to make a grab, along with Italy, for the back of Germany's jacket, but the German man had already collided with the larger nation. Gilbird took evasive action, fluttering up off of Germany's head and onto Italy's. A fist swung, and there was a sickening crack.

"_OI!_ What the _bloody hell _is going _on_ in here?" England had reappeared at the doorway – he had forgotten his jacket – just in time to see Germany and Russia fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the only other two nations present staring at them helplessly. The British man stormed around the table, shoving Toris and Feliciano to either side, green eyes blazing with a fury rarely seen outside of war.

By that time, however, the quick struggle had been sorted out. Germany was lying flat on his back, expression practically homicidal, while the Russia crouched on top of him, pinning down both his arms and legs. Ivan's nose was at a funny angle, and blood was dripping off of it onto Germany's cheek.

"Just like your brother," he whispered, spitting blood onto Ludwig's face. "Headstrong, stupid, and ultimately, _weak_."

"Go. To. _Hell_." Ludwig snarled and twisted beneath the other, but got nowhere, as Ivan was a good deal heavier than he was.

Ivan gave him a conspiratorial smile before he pulled himself off the other, ignoring England's hand on his back. He glanced at the few people still in the room, and held up the paper; it was now crumpled and slightly bloodstained, but ultimately, still in his possession. With an evil look for Germany, Ivan ripped it into pieces. They drifted to the floor, fluttering like dying birds. The shredded pile they made at Ivan's feet was pitifully small.

"This is what I think of your affection for your brother. Flimsy and ripped apart easily enough." Returning England's glare, the man put a hand on Toris's shoulder, fingers tightening. "Come along, Lithuania. We're going home. I'll figure out what to do with you once we get there."

"Y – Yes, Ivan." With one last, regretful look at Ludwig, Toris allowed himself to be propelled from the room.

Germany remained where he was for a long while after the door had slammed shut behind the other two nations, sitting up with a curiously blank expression on his face. Both England and Italy seemed at a loss for what to say, and stood where they were, awkward and not sure if they should leave or not.

It seemed like an age later when, at last, Ludwig stirred. He wiped at the dried blood on his cheeks, with little success, and then pushed himself into a crouch. Moving slowly, as if pained, his gloved hands reached out to cup the pile of shredded paper that Russia had made of the letter. His fingers clenched around them, and the pieces drifted out from between his fingers. There was silence, and then Germany let out a cry like a wounded animal, slamming his fists into the ground, jaw clenched.

"Ludwig…" England moved a step closer, green eyes filled with worry. When the other nation made no response, he carefully crouched next to him, like he would to a child. The British man tentatively put a hand on the other's shoulder, which was shaking.

"Get off of me." Germany's voice was a low, menacing growl. "Get your hands _off me._"

Arthur's brow furrowed. "Ludwig, I know you're going through –" He never got the rest of his sentence out as much more than a yelp; Germany whirled on him, throwing his bodyweight on top of the slighter nation, pinning him to the floor.

"Don't _pretend_ to know what I'm going through!" His blue eyes were wild, and England wondered if that darkness slinking behind them wasn't a remnant of the war. "You, who wanted this in the first place! _You_, who stood there and didn't say a word and signed my brother over to that lunatic without as much as a second glance! And now you stand here and pretend to _understand_." His laugh was ragged, and not entirely sane. "Are you happy, _England_? Are you happy to see what you've reduced me to? Trying to send letters that won't ever get there, not knowing if my sibling is alive… _ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?_"

By the time he reached the end of his rant, tears were streaming down his face. With a strangled sob, Germany pulled himself off of England and buried his face in his hands. The green eyed man picked himself up into a sitting position, staring at Germany with wide eyes. Italy, too, seemed shocked to see the usually strong, forceful nation reduced to – to this.

"I never wanted this," Arthur finally said, his voice heavy. "I – I know how you and your brother are. I was against the separation. But my boss –"

"Don't try to justify it." Ludwig's voice was muffled.

"You more than anyone should know what it's like to have to deal with an unreasonable man, Ludwig. Your history…"

"Yes, because _your_ boss was a raving lunatic bent on killing millions." Germany pulled his hands away, and his normally light blue eyes were stormy and dark. "Yours just wanted to grind in the pain that much more. I had to watch terrible things done to my people and to my brother. We were _beaten_. Gilbert nearly _died_, because I was too wrapped up in fighting to notice that I was killing him by inches." The anger faded from his face, leaving his expression drained and defeated. "Wasn't that punishment enough?" The words were barely a whisper, but seemed so much louder in the ensuing silence.

**

* * *

**

The train car was dead silent, save for the sounds of their luggage rattling in the overhead compartments. Ivan was the only one who appeared in the slightest bit relaxed; he was reclining in his seat, eyes closed. He had cleaned up his face, and earlier in the ride, had wrenched his nose back into place. Aside from the faint smattering of forming bruises, he looked none the worse for wear due to his encounter with Germany's fists. Estonia and Latvia were trying to silently communicate with Lithuania, who was crushed between Russia's bulk and the window. But he refused to meet their eyes, instead keeping his gaze firmly fixed at the window.

His eye was badly bruised, a vicious dark mark against his pale skin. He hardly seemed conscious of the blood slowly trickling from a split lower lip. One hand was clenched in a tight fist, but the other remained limp, wrist and several fingers at odd angles. But throughout it all, even when the train jumped slightly, jarring the broken bones, Toris kept his mouth shut and never said a word.

It wasn't out of fear or pain that he refused to look at his fellow Baltic nations, or why he kept as far away from Russia as physically possible on the small, cramped seats. It was because he knew that if he so much as looked up, the secret slowly burning a hole in his chest would make itself known.

With every lurch of the train, every movement that his body made swaying with it, his heart pounded, positive that everyone in the compartment could hear the soft crackle of the secret hidden under his coat. He knew that if Russia were aware, he would receive much more than a few broken bones and bruises – and if the other two nations found out, they, too, would be held accountable.

Ludwig would never forgive him, he knew, for not telling him. But there had been no way to do so without arousing suspicion – and Toris had a feeling that he wouldn't be attending any meetings for some time. As they rolled closer and closer to home, the paper burned hotter and hotter against his skin; a ray of hope, however tiny.

A letter, written with love and with worry, swiftly winging its way across barriers of wire and will.

* * *

**A/N:** Hm. Happier with this chapter than the last one, for sure.

No song lyrics this time... I wanted an actual historical quote, so out comes Old Fritz!

The pace will be picking up in the next chapter or so, because we're at Chapter Six and I think maybe a year and a half has passed. I need to get to 1961 soon~! (So expect some... interesting things in Chapter Seven.)

I'm glad for all of your reviews! :)

Pheleon.


	7. Ten Years Gone

**Soluble Chapter Seven: Ten Years Gone**

_When the seas are rolling in,__  
__When the stars are shining clear,__  
__When the ghosts are howling near,__  
__When we sing the Russian lullaby…_

_- Russian Lullaby, E-Type_

**Warning: **Parts of this chapter contain quite a lot of swearing, courtesy of Prussia.

**Summer 1949**

He let out a whimper, hands spasmodically clenching against the thin blanket. His hair was sweat soaked, though he could hardly afford to lose the body weight. A hand gently rested itself on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.

"It's alright, Gilbert…" The voice was calming, smooth, and familiar in an aching way. "I'm here for you, brother…"

"West…" The word whispered out from between his cracked lips, sounding like the last rattling breath of the dying. "… I missed you…"

There was a light laugh. "And I missed you, Gilbert… so very much."

The albino, eyes still closed, curled closer to the grip, coming to rest up against a solid, warm form. The added warmth was welcome, and he pulled even closer. A second hand reached up, running though his hair slowly, firmly.

Gilbert's eyes slid open slowly, still caught halfway between the world of dreaming and waking. His blinked a few times, and then recoiled so fast that his back hit the wall his bed was against. His lips pulled back into an almost animalistic snarl.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about it, was Ivan.

"Get the _fuck _out of my room!" His red eyes flashed with anger, and something that was close to terror but not quite.

"You were enjoying my presence until you opened your eyes," Russia pointed out with a sing-song tone, folding his hands on his lap, and showing not the slightest inclination to getting up and leaving.

"Yeah, and that's the problem, you Communist bastard," Gilbert spat back. He was overreacting somewhat, he knew, but – well, waking up to Ivan's presence wasn't exactly… well, it wasn't something he enjoyed waking up to. And to have been caught in such a vulnerable position, to have actually believed that the Russian was his _brother_…

Ivan grinned again, and only now pulled himself to his feet. "Your mind isn't the sound fortress you think it is, my GDR," he said softly, chuckling under his breath. "There are so many… _cracks_ to be exploited, if one only knows where to push…"

"Get out." Prussia's voice had grown dangerous, and he looked like something feral, hunched there on the corner of the thin mattress. "You gave me this prison… do me the favour of keeping your fat ass out of it."

Instead of rising to the bait, Ivan merely nodded, radiating approval. "I see you have finally taken up my native tongue. This pleases me greatly, GDR." He glanced around the room dismissively, taking in the red scarf scrunched into a ball in the corner, and the kicked over chair that was near it. "I expect you upstairs in no less than five minutes, Gilbert. Take the time to make yourself presentable, please."

"Yes, with all the beauty products you've supplied me with," the other snapped back, making sure it was in German this time. "You haven't even let me near a pair of scissors in two years." He knew, of course, that by "presentable" Ivan was referring to the red scarf and nothing else. Prussia's own clothing was in no particularly good shape; he rarely bothered to look after it.

"You should tell me when you want your hair cut, da? You are such a _headstrong_ little nation, I never know if you're trying to be rebellious by growing it out." Ivan pushed the door open smoothly, which explained why Prussia hadn't woken up when he had first come in; someone had taken in into their heads to actually oil the hinges.

"Want a sponge to mop up that sarcasm? It's making a mess on my valuable cement floor," the Prussian replied back, equally as nasty.

Ivan sighed, but the smile never vanished. "Your time is even shorter now. Be upstairs in three minutes, or there will be consequences." The door slid shut behind him.

With a snarl of frustration, Prussia stalked across the small space and yanked the scarf off of the floor. His hair, longer than it had been in a while, kept on falling in his eyes. There was tightness in his throat that he was firmly and resolutely ignoring.

"_Verdammt(1)_," he whispered as he wrapped the scarf around his neck. The fabric was chilly from having spent the night in neglect on the floor. "_Verdammt, verdammt, verdamnt!_"

His foot connected solidly with the already knocked over chair, kicking it into the nearest wall. The weakly held together joints broke on contact, but the Prussian continued kicking, until there was no hope of repair, and there were wood chunks strewn across the corner.

"_Du wird nicht gewinnen, Ivan…_(2)_"_ He sent one last red-eyed glare at the chair (which really hadn't done anything) and stormed out of his room, making sure to slam the door as hard as he could on the way out, in the hopes that the hinges might fall off.

Gilbert refused to acknowledge the tiny flutter of anxiety in his chest; the creeping fear spawned by the simple fact that, in two short years, he was already unconsciously speaking Russian.

**Spring 1950**

"Ludwig… you should do some work, _non?_ It isn't healthy, what you're doing." Francis's forehead creased into a frown – he was getting rather used to the expression these days. There seemed very little to be cheerful about in the aftermath of the war. In the wake of Russia and America's newly strained relationships, all of the nations were hard pressed to be happy about much of anything.

"He never wrote back, you know." Germany was standing at the large window in his office, staring out over Berlin. Below him, people moved about their business – if it weren't for the ruin still evident in places, it would have been a normal spring day. "Something's happened to him, I know it."

The French nation sighed softly – enough so that Germany wouldn't hear. Despite the havoc that Ludwig's country had wreaked on his own during the war, Francis had found himself spending more and more time at the German's house. He wasn't sure if the other man appreciated it or not – he never said as much, but he was still let in whenever he came knocking. As such, France had found himself witness to a rather sobering problem – watching Germany retreat further and further into himself with every passing year. There was a slight hunch to his shoulders, as if he was bearing an impossible weight; he had a perpetual frown that, even if it wasn't in evidence on his face, was still clear in his eyes.

"Your brother… was never very big on writing letters anyway, from what Antonio and I figured out. Perhaps he is simply busy with repairing his own country, _oui_? As you should be doing."

"Or maybe that bastard Ivan's preventing him from communicating with me," Ludwig ground out, hand curling into a fist.

Francis pulled himself off of the couch with a soft groan – his limbs were stiffer than usual these days – and made his way over to stand next to the taller German man. He looked out over the city, the frown still tugging at the corner of his mouth. The people here, he knew, were not _happy_… they were still reeling from the effects of a terrible war, and ravaged by a terrible guilt. A guilt that, Francis knew, Ludwig seemed to be sharing.

"Perhaps… he simply lacks a method to send anything to you?" He was reluctant to say anything that would give the other nation a reason to hope – his brother was with Ivan, after all, and there was no telling what the Russian would do. "His country was worse off than yours, and I would imagine that the postal system…" he managed a slightly crooked smile, "… is not quite on its feet yet."

Germany glanced at France briefly, before returning his gaze to the window. There was a moment of silence, and then his eyes widened slightly. "A… way to send letters?" He whirled so quickly that Francis nearly fell over in surprise. His hands clamped down on the slighter nation's shoulders tightly. "Francis," he said, and his voice was low. "Can that bird of his understand people?"

"Gilbird?" France's voice was slightly strangled, his eyes wide with surprise. "Ah… _oui, _I believe he does, in a sense. Gilbert used him to carry letters… to…" Realization struck. "Ludwig, you aren't planning on trying to send that little thing over to Russia, are you?" The look in the German man's eyes was all the answer he needed. "_Non. _I cannot let you do this. Gilbert would be most displeased… he would not want you to endanger his bird…"

"I have to get word from him somehow, Bonnefoy," Ludwig said, hands clenching tighter for a moment. "And Lithuania won't carry them anymore… Russia isn't letting him anywhere near me at the world meetings."

"_L'Allemagne(3)_, last time you punched him, and from what I hear, broke his nose. He has no reason to do you any favours."

A grim smile appeared on the German's face. "Bastard deserved it, and you know it," he said shortly. "But I don't care anymore, Francis. I haven't seen my brother in _five years_." The grip he had on the French nation was painful now, and Francis struggled to keep from wincing. "I'm going to get news from him, and I don't care what your opinion is on the matter. Gilbird is intelligent; he'll be fine. I just want some news. _Any_ news."

"Can you not wait for a more diplomatic approach?" France tried to pull himself away, to no avail. "You are in no shape to anger Russia; your people and your country cannot take another war so soon."

Ludwig finally let go, and shook his head. "Ivan won't start anything with me. And even if he does, I'll have America to back me up. He's itching for an opportunity to fight with Russia too, in case you haven't been aware."

"I am quite conscious of the tension between those two, Ludwig. I just think that –"

But Germany was already striding out of the room, a good deal more purpose in his steps than Francis had seen in a long while. For a moment the blond hesitated, and then half ran after the other; Germany's long strides meant that they were in the hallway before the French nation caught up with him.

"Be _reasonable_, Germany –" He put a firm hand on the other's shoulder, tried to twist him around so they were face to face; his words were cut off by a yelp of indignation as Germany whirled and grabbed his wrist.

"Be _reasonable_?" The man's voice was dangerous, and Francis saw something unpleasant flicker through his blue eyes. "You're asking me to be _reasonable_? Need I remind you that _you_ stood there and said _nothing_ as they signed away my brother's nation? You didn't agree when England wanted to hand him over to Russia, but you didn't _protest_, did you? I was the _only one_ who stood up for Gilbert; the rest of you crawled into your little hidey-holes and forgot about the man you called _friend_ for so many years." With a snarl of disgust, he threw Francis away from him; the lighter nation hit the wall hard.

"Germany, I –"

"Get out of my house, Francis." Ludwig turned on his heels, and continued walking. "And don't set a foot past my door again."

Francis watched the other go, and only once he had vanished into a room at the end of the hallway did he allow himself to slump back fully against the wall, burying his head in his hands. It was a remarkably sober expression for the normally flamboyant, excitable man to be wearing.

_La Prusse(4)__… What you've done… it's killing him. I want to tell him… why this must be done… but my promise to you remains firm. For your brother's sake and sanity, I hope you really _are_ alright over there…_

**Winter 1951**

"It's going to be a cold winter this year," Lithuania remarked from his position on the couch. Prussia, who was lying on his stomach as close to the fireplace as he could get, made some muffled agreement.

"You're going to set yourself on fire, you know," Estonia said, glancing over his glasses at the white haired man. For once, an amused smile was twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"At least I'll die warm," Gilbert said back, twisting his head so that he could see the rest of the room.

It was one of those days when Russia showed that he possessed at least a percentage of humanity. The wind had been howling at the house for the past couple of days, and in a strangely charitable mood, the large man had declared that the four nations living in his house could spend their time in the living room – the warmest part of the house. Not bothering to question this, they had all instantly taken up the offer; right now Gilbert was trying to absorb as much heat as possible, as if he could somehow keep it with him for the rest of the winter. He idly played with the end of the scarf wrapped around his neck; while he hated the fact it was Ivan's way of laying ownership on him, the Prussian couldn't deny that it was warm. Though he made it a point to say how much he hated it whenever the opportunity presented itself, it had become a valuable asset during the cold nights.

"Any idea how the outside world is doing?" He cradled his head on his arms, and watched the three others in the room.

Estonia shrugged, momentarily putting down his book. "News is harder and harder to come by these days. We haven't had an invitation to a conference or meeting in almost a year." He glanced down at Latvia, curled up next to him, asleep. "We are being closed off."

Lithuania frowned slightly. "That's not entirely true… I can still talk to Poland –"

"Yes, because the cross-dressing nation who wants to paint his house pink is entirely reliable in giving accurate news," Prussia said dryly, rubbing at his scarred eye, a small smile appearing on his thin face.

Toris glared at the nation on the floor. "Just because he – what's that noise?" A brief lull in the winter wind allowed for another, fainter sound to come through.

Prussia lifted his head. "Something's… tapping?" He glanced towards the sole window in the room, currently tightly bolted against the wind. "Is someone out there?"

"Good god, I hope not." Estonia extricated himself from Latvia, succeeding in getting up without waking the other, and walked to the window, frowning slightly. He pulled the curtain aside, and peered out into the darkness and swirling snow beyond. "I don't think there – agh!" The nation jerked back from the window with an exclamation of surprise.

"What is it?" Prussia had gone to the effort to prop himself up on his elbows, and was attempting to see around the Estonian without actually moving.

"It's a – bird." Eduard didn't sound entirely sure of himself. "There's a bird. Sitting on the windowsill. In the middle of winter."

Lithuania raised an eyebrow. "Are you feeling alright, Eduard? Maybe you ought to lie down… there's no way anything would be flying around out there in _that_." He gestured to the storm; though it was quieter now, it was anything but calm.

Gilbert, however, had taken a sudden interest. He pulled himself up off the floor with a groan, and made his way over to the window. His gait was still slow, and he was very deliberate in his steps; despite having healed a great deal, the nation was still unsteady and prone to lightheadedness. He made a shield over his eyes so that he could see out past the light in the room, and a moment later, let out a sound of surprise.

"Gilbird!" Without any further explanation, he was suddenly trying to unlatch the window. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the cold metal latch.

"Let me." Estonia reached around him and flipped the lock open. Almost instantly, a blast of wind burst through into the room, bringing in swirling snow and an icy breeze. The fire guttered slightly, momentarily cowed by the ferocity of the storm. Something else blew in at the same time; landing in Gilbert's outstretched hands.

As Estonia wrestled with the window – now that it was open, it didn't seem to want to stay shut – the albino nation made his way back to the fire, sitting even closer to it now. He used the edge of his scarf to wrap up the tiny little bundle that had flown in with the snow, cupping it gently.

Latvia stirred, blinking blearily, and looked over the arm of the couch. "Why's it cold?" he asked fuzzily.

"Go back to sleep," Estonia murmured, patting the smallest of them on the head gently. "We'll tell you in the morning."

"Mmmkaaaay…"

Once the younger nation was settled again, Lithuania and Estonia turned to Gilbert, questioning looks on their faces.

"Just what exactly is a _Gilbird_?" Toris asked eventually, trying not to laugh at the name, as he stood up and made his way over to the fire.

"Awesome incarnate, just like me," the white haired nation replied, stroking the little ball of yellow fluff in his hands.

"Isn't that the bird that Germany had on his head at that meeting?" Estonia looked at the chick, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Gilbert grinned. "Seriously? West let him sit in his hair?" He laughed softly; and Toris couldn't help but smile. It had been a long time since any of them had had a reason for a sincere expression of happiness.

The albino nation finally pulled the scarf away, having sufficiently dried off the bird. In his hands, the tiny thing peeped affectionately at the master it hadn't seen in so very long. Another peep and some weak wing flapping, and Gilbert put the bird in its usual place on top of his head.

"Has West been feeding you?" Prussia poked the animal in the side, rousing a tired, indignant cheep from it. "You feel skinny. And why the hell were you flying out here in the middle of winter? Brother didn't send you, did he? Because if he did, I'm going to have his head for dinner when I get back…"

"What's going on in here?"

All three of them jumped, and turned to face the entrance to the room. Standing in the doorway, bottle in hand was Russia, looking them with an expectant expression. He took a few steps into the room, and his eyes found the yellow fluff ball sitting on Prussia's head.

"GDR. Explain." His voice hadn't gotten angry yet, and his expression remained more curious than anything.

"This is Gilbird," Gilbert said quietly, shoulders hunching as if to ward off a blow. "He's mine. You're not having him."

A long silence stretched. Russia lifted the bottle of clear liquid to his lips and took a long pull, wiping his lips as he let his arm drop. Something shifted in his eyes, something close to longing and pain, but it was gone before Prussia could be sure it had ever really been there.

"Нет, my little Democratic Republic. Hет." Ivan took another drink. "I will not take him away from you."

And with slow steps, the Russian removed himself from the room. The nations who were awake watched him go, blinking a little in surprise and consternation.

"Did he just…" Toris watched the Russian go, chewing on his lip. _He_ hadn't missed that look in the other's eyes.

"He's drunk; I could smell the vodka from here." Estonia returned carefully to the couch, picking up his neglected book. "People don't change," he added, a bit too loudly, eyes narrowed. "Especially monsters like him."

Gilbert, who hadn't missed the suddenly interested look in Ivan's purple eyes, clouded by alcohol as they were, couldn't help but agree. Though he was glad to have Gilbird with him, he was suddenly aware that the bird's presence only gave Russia one more foothold.

* * *

_"He's drunk; I could smell the vodka from here."_

Ivan, leaning against the wall just outside the room, gripped the bottle in his hands just a little tighter, his knuckles turning white with the effort. He shut his eyes, tilting his head back to the sky, struggling to contend with a sudden strange lump in his throat. The feeling spreading through him… he had not felt it in a very long time. He couldn't remember the last time he had _really_ felt anything but hatred and loneliness.

_"People don't change."_

It wasn't right to be standing here, listening to his family talk. It wasn't honest; he was supposed to be their authority figure, not skulk around and spy on them. The Russian bit his lip, his free hand tangling itself up in the end of his long scarf. Perhaps he should go inside and sit with them… have a normal evening, all five of them in the same room, relaxed and calm and laughing like they had been before he had come in, when it had cut off so harshly –

_"Especially monsters like him."_

The words made him freeze in the action of pushing himself away from the wall. Estonia's voice was hard and angry, and entirely sincere. Russia flinched, and tasted blood; he had bitten through his lip. He remained there a moment longer, listening to the four of them move around, chatting and joking like a normal family did, and felt something deep in his chest twist.

Without a sound, the massive man pulled away from the wall and continued down the hall. He slipped into his boots without much thought, one hand already on the door. It came open so easily under his hand that he nearly stumbled back. Cold wind raced into the warm entrance, running icy fingers through his hair, breathing snow down his back. Ivan shivered, but didn't hesitate.

The storm was still raging outside; though it had calmed momentarily, it had apparently found a second wind. The snow was nearly blinding, and Ivan stumbled through the dark, shielding his eyes and clutching to his vodka like it was a lifeline. He kept enough wit about him to remain close to the edge of the house, rubbing his shoulder along it as he walked.

Finally he came to the place that almost no one ever saw. Tucked away at the back of the massive construct, a place where the bricks sank inwards. The Russian stood outside it, hand pressing against the stone, head bowed. The wind snickered around his heels, trying to buffet him over into the drifting snow.

"_Почему! Why?_" With a shriek of anger that was lost in the sound of the wind, Ivan smashed the nearly empty bottle against the stone. The glass shattered, shards cutting deeply into the palm of his hand. Bright, hot pain lanced through him, and blood began to drip onto the snow. He hardly noticed.

_Why does my family hate me? What have I done wrong?_

With a whimper uncharacteristic of the large nation, Russia sank to his knees in the snow, dragging his forehead down the cold brick of the house. He clenched his hands into fists, staring blindly at the red now spattered across the snow in a brilliant pattern. Ivan shut his eyes, and unbidden, images rose from the back of his mind.

_Toris screaming as the skin on his back was ripped open again, blood running over his skin, shockingly red…_

_ … Shoving Latvia out the door on a night much like this and locking it behind him. By morning finding the little nation in a state that would have killed a human…_

_ … Estonia writhing on the floor, screaming and sobbing, clawing at himself as his people died a fiery death…_

_ … Toris's dead expression as he watched a train of his people headed for work camps… knowing that many would never survive the crushing cold and terrible conditions…_

_ … Anger and pain as his own people burned, lashing out violently at the nearest person, hearing the resounding crack of a hand on flesh… watching Belarus's eyes grow wide with surprise and betrayal…_

Ivan opened his eyes again, even though the wind hurt them, because it was less painful to have them open than to relive his memories again. He lowered his head into his hands, only to come in contact with a cold, sticky substance. Dead violet eyes flickered down, only to grow wide with something like horror to realize that his hands were covered in red, and now so was his face and his hair and no matter how hard he scrubbed in the snow it wouldn't come _off_…

Huddling back into that little indent in the bricks, escaping the worst of the wind, shaking uncontrollably… wishing it weren't so cold. Pulling out a second vodka bottle; burning sensations as he tried to wash his hands with that, a burning inside his chest when it did nothing. Taking long, desperate gulps of the liquid, hardly noticing the way it seared his throat, not liking the fuzzy sensation that settled over his brain; knowing it was better than sitting there and remembering, knowing, _seeing_…

And even though his shoulders shook, with cold or for some other reason, Ivan did not cry. He did not apologize, even to the wind, because the words never came out right when he tried (and he had tried). He hunched further in on himself, and though there was an agony searing through his chest that no amount of alcohol was soothing, no tears fell, because such a thing was alien to him. Because over all those years, he had forgotten how.

Because he was Russia, and their words weren't supposed to hurt him.

**Spring 1953**

The house was silent; Lithuania found it almost difficult to move through it, as if there was invisible molasses in the air, and he was sticking to it. The rest of the house was quiet at this hour; the two younger Baltic nations having gone to bed, and Prussia likely pacing in his basement room, the door firmly locked.

But despite this, Toris found himself padding down the hallway, bare toes cold even though it was spring. It was only March, after all, and the winter had been a long one. He wasn't much paying attention to where his body was taking him, and so found himself by their shared living room. Strangely, despite the fact that it was only the earliest hours of the morning, a low light was flickering; dying red and yellow colours stretching out pleadingly across the carpet.

"Um…" He poked his head around the door, all the while wondering just why he was doing it. Likely, it would have been safer to go back to bed. His eyes widened at the scene before him, and the feeling that bed was currently very safe increased tenfold.

Russia was sitting in the center of the room, sprawled on the ground, a pile of bottles sitting around him in no particular order. Currently his back was turned to the doorway, but just as Toris was about to pull away, Ivan turned around.

"You can come in, Litva," he said quietly. And for once, there was no trace of an order or a demand in his tone. He stared up at the other nation for a long moment, purple eyes slightly wider than usual, and more than slightly unfocused.

Toris sighed to himself – why did these things always happen to _him_? – and stepped into the room. His nose wrinkled at the smell in the air; apparently Ivan had been here for some time. He had to nudge a few bottles aside; they rolled into the darker corners of the room with sad clinks.

"Ivan," he said softly, looking down at the other. "Are you… alright?"

"'Course I am," the larger nation mumbled, staring into the fire with a smile pasted onto his face. "Why wouldn't I be? I'm better off for it…"

Toris frowned slightly, and without really meaning to, found himself crouching at eye-level next to the normally terrifying nation. There was nothing terrifying about Ivan now; he was drunk out of his mind, probably incapable of standing under his own power, and Lithuania was beginning to think a few more screws had come undone.

"I… Russia, even you can't be unaffected. It hurts, I know." Lithuania's hand shook slightly as he reached out, and his common sense was screaming madly at him _why are you doing this are you mad he's going to rip your arm off and beat you with it you stupid excuse for a nation – _

"They pass like snow. Pretty and fresh and new…" Ivan sighed, letting out a breath laced with the smell of vodka. In the corner, the fire – even lower now – glinted off the outline of the ever-present pipe.

"Yeah." Toris was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he was _touching_ the other – his hand was on _Ivan Braginski's shoulder_, and it hadn't been forcefully yanked out of its socket yet.

"… and then it sticks around for too long; it gets dirty and tarnished and you see all its faults and you start to hate it…" Ivan took a swig from the bottle in his hand, hiccupping slightly. "But when it melts, you realize that you miss it and want it back because spring is even dirtier and there's nothing pretty about it…"

"Ivan… I'm sorry. I truly am." Toris moved a bit closer to the large nation. For a moment their relationship was not servant to master, but what it had once been; not quite friends, but with equal respect. Back before Ivan had lost what was left of his sanity – because he hadn't ever been quite sane, Toris knew. His past was bloody, violent, and it had done something terrible to his mind.

"There'll be another… there always is. I just want them to stop… _fighting_ over it…"

For a while, only the crackling of flames filled the room; the fire spitting at them as it slowly lost momentum and heat. The light faded until only an eerie outline of Ivan's face, lit up with bloody red light, was visible.

"My chest hurts," he said suddenly, plaintively, and once again, Toris saw the child that Ivan had once been. "It hurts, Litva, and it won't go away…"

The slighter nation hesitated, and then tentatively wrapped his arms around his enemy; the man he hated with a passion; the man he was terrified to be near. He sat there with Ivan Braginski until the large nation began to nod off, when he helped him at least get to the couch, trying not to trip over vodka bottles in the process.

"Litva…" His eyes were dropping closed, words stumbling out over one another and hardly audible.

Toris, on his way out the door – so he could pretend this hadn't happened – paused. "Yes, Ivan?" he asked quietly, hand on the doorframe.

"… thank you…"

He wasn't sure he had heard correctly; but when he moved closer to the Russian, he found that Ivan had dropped off to sleep. Shaking his head, Toris reached over and lightly tugged the nearly empty bottle out of his hand, and tucked a pillow under his blond head. He took one last look around the room, and wondered why this didn't happen more often; why they couldn't be like this all the time.

The next morning when Ivan, hung-over and irritable, slapped him across the face for adding sugar to his coffee, Toris would remember _exactly_ why.

**Spring 1954**

The atmosphere around the table was chilly. There was a definite divide between the countries – the eastern and the western halves of the world. The controversy was surrounding one of their number – a woman with an angular face, her brown eyes narrow and hands clenched into fists.

"So. We should probably get this… started." England seemed to have been designated as the one who would break awkward, tense silences. "As you all know, we're here to decide what to do about… Vietnam, in light of recent… ah… events."

"_I don't need anyone to decide what to _do_ about me_," the woman snarled in her native language, crossing her arms. The movement revealed the bandages winding their way up her arms. "_I know exactly what I want. Why can these stupid nations understand this?_"

China carefully put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it, and sending an icy glare across the table, mostly directed to America. The Western nation was, for once, not indulging in hamburgers or soda. He was sitting just as quietly as the rest of them, face drawn and equally stormy. Vietnam shrugged off the comforting gesture, glaring at China with as much fury as everyone else.

"I'm not going to let you spread this Communist disease any further," the younger nation said shortly, glasses flashing. "It's done no good for anyone."

"I disagree." Russia steepled his fingers, leaning forward on the table, smiling pleasantly. The two superpower nations were, these days, almost certain to take entirely opposite sides on whatever issues arose. "My people are quite content with what this new rule has brought them. And I would ask you politely to not refer to it as a 'disease.' It is far more effective than your… capitalism. Or have you forgotten your Depression so swiftly?"

"I haven't forgotten, and I'm not going to do anything you say, you frigid assed –"

"_Mon dieu_, can we just get this over with?" France, leaning his head on his hand, had drawn his eyebrows into a frown. His hair was messy, and his clothes looked as though they had been slept in the night before. The involvement of his country in Vietnam's problems was taking its toll.

"You can haul your troops _out of my business_," Vietnam spat, half out of her seat. She was normally not so violently tempered, but there was a good deal of stress on her as well. The warfare had hardened her quite a bit. "You have _no_ reason to be there. I don't belong to you just because you and your friends decided that at the end of the war, so _get out_." She slammed her fist on the table as she spoke, nearly upsetting Germany's coffee over his lap.

"Da, see? The girl knows what she wants, so I say we let her choose as she would. That's the good thing about our system… everyone is equal." Russia leaned back, his chair letting out an ominous creak.

"Yeah, equal to wait in line for food and _starve_. Don't you pretend that everything is fine and dandy, _Ivan_. I know your country isn't everything you claim it to be. Ever since Stalin went and kicked the bucket –"

Ivan's expression twisted. "I would advise you to shut your mouth, Comrade _Alfred_, but it makes it so much easier for me to rip your jaw off when you have it flapping open all the time."

Ludwig, who was sitting between the two groups of nations – an unwise move that he was now regretting – sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He, personally, didn't really care to be here. This was an issue that had nothing to do with him, and apparently all he was going to get out of it was scalding hot beverage in his lap in the near future. Beside him, Vietnam was shaking with the sheer effort of not screaming across the table, but it was only a matter of time before something gave…

"I think perhaps Ivan had the right idea. Why not just let her pick, aru?" China seemed to have learned his lesson, and was no longer trying to comfort a nation who clearly didn't want it.

"Oh, you _would_ say that, you terrorizing _bastard_. Did you think I'd forgotten how you treated my people? Because I haven't, and you can just go shove your righteousness up your –" Vietnam degenerated into a series of unintelligible words, eyes flashing and dark.

"There, see?" America crossed his arms and offered the long haired girl a triumphant smile. "Clearly she wants nothing to do with the rest of you –"

"Don't you start with me, _Alfred_. You're just as bad as the rest of them! You and your idiotic _Allies_, who seem under the impression they can just sign nations away because they won a war!" Vietnam let out a derisive laugh. "Remember Prussia? You dissolved him and handed what was left over to Russia, because he was _trouble_. Remember _Japan_?" She ignored the stricken look that was appearing on the American's face. "Why not just do to me what you did to my _brother_, hm? It was such an _effective_ way of preventing him from doing_ anything_."

"I think perhaps we should conclude this meeting as soon as possible." Germany, speaking up at last, kept his voice quiet. For that reason alone, it was startling enough to get the arguing nations to look at him. "We are accomplishing nothing, and I have work to do. I'm sure the rest of you have the same." He was strongly resisting the urge to reach over and throttle Ivan at the moment. Not since he had sent Gilbird over to his brother had he had anything approaching news. He was beginning to wonder if Francis hadn't been right, and the little thing hadn't even survived the journey…

"Yeah, and I'm getting tired of seeing all of you here all the time." Switzerland, across from Germany, wasn't looking very happy with the proceedings. His concern seemed largely based on the worry that his meeting room wouldn't survive far into the immediate future. "So figure this out and get lost."

"We're here to work out a world issue, Vash, and you can't –" England started to talk, but the Swiss man just stared him down.

"I can, and I am. You're all hopeless when it comes to working something out, especially when you might have to give up personal stakes in the matter." A pointed look at Francis, who was apparently dropping off to sleep. "So stop nattering at each other over personal issues, and help this girl figure out where her life is going."

"I don't _need_ –"

Germany sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers; this had nothing to do with him, and he didn't want to be here. He was tired of fighting.

Around his small island of exasperation and irritation, the meeting degenerated once again into yelling.

**Summer 1955**

_He didn't look up from his desk as the door was nearly kicked off its hinges; his lack of reaction was mostly due to the fact that only one man would ever dare to enter in such a manner. The yelling of the two soldiers standing guard outside had been a bit of a hint as well. Those same soldiers leapt into the room, guns ready, in the wake of the white haired man behind them. _

_ "Germany." His brother's voice was calm; but Ludwig had known the other too long, and could almost hear the strain it took Gilbert to keep it so._

_ He still didn't look up, though he did wave a dismissive hand at his two guards (not that he needed them… it was unlikely that Prussia was going to try and kill him.) "What is it, brother?" Germany didn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice; he was under a lot of stress right at the moment, and didn't want to deal with the albino and his issues._

_ "Look at me, brother." Still in that unnatural tone. _

_ "Gilbert, I don't have time for this right now. Go and pester one of your soldiers if you want some cheap entertainmen – what the _hell_ are you _doing?" _His sentence ended in a startled yelp as a gloved hand swept across his desk, knocking all of the papers to the floor in a white blizzard. Germany half stood, his blue eyes furious. "You ass, I need –" His words died as he caught sight of Prussia's face._

_ The albino's pale cheeks were streaked with tears; there were still some slipping from his eyes. He had a hunted look on his face, but that wasn't the worst of it. His red eyes, which Ludwig had rarely seen looking anything besides mischievous, were dark with rage._

_ "You stupid little _fucker_," the Prussian snarled, and before his brother could react, his hands had shot out and grabbed onto his collar. They were yanked almost nose to nose, and Ludwig found something inside of himself try to shrink away from that stare. "Has this war made you forget everything I taught you?"_

_ "I – Gilbert, I don't know what you're –"_

_ "Oh, don't you start that with me, you asshole. I thought we were _brothers_. I came into this war because you damn well _asked_ me, not because I believe in any of your shitty Nazi dogma. And this is how you repay me? Keeping secrets, not telling me anything, leaving me in the dark all the time?"_

_ "Gilbert, I _really_ don't –" Ludwig's desperate attempt to get a word in failed._

_ "I'm older than you, _brother_; I'd like to remind you. I know things about warfare that would make your hair curl. And you _always_ share information with your allies. _Always_."_

_ "What the hell are you talking about?" Germany finally managed to finish his sentence, as Prussia heaved in air that he had apparently been forgoing to lambaste his brother._

_ "I'm talking about the fucking English Lancaster bombers that my chain of command just fucking told me about. And you know where they're headed, you thick headed –" His words failed for a moment, unable to come up with a suitable insult._

_ Germany went very still. He was speaking the truth when he said he had no idea what Prussia was talking about – but this didn't sound good. "Where are they headed?" His voice was suddenly a lot quieter._

_ Gilbert looked at him, and there was agony in his eyes. "__Königsberg."His capital. The heart of his nation since the Teutonic Knights; since before Germany had even existed. _

_ Ludwig stared back, his blue eyes empty with shock. "But – I –"_

_ "Didn't think it was important enough to warn me, did you?" The anger was now less, but the bitterness was sharp and painful. "Your boss has you brainwashed. Let me guess. It's for the good of the nation, isn't it?"_

_"You have to believe me, Gilbert. I didn't –"_

_ Prussia let go of him roughly, and Ludwig fell back into his chair simply because he was so surprised. The white haired man stared at him with a face that was suddenly alien in nature; sharp and angry and nothing like the brother he knew._

_ "I don't have to do anything, Ludwig. I've meant nothing to you in this war; you've made that very clear."_

_ "Prussia, you haven't meant –"_

_ "Remember Auschwitz? The other concentration camps where you're sending people to die? You told me they were work camps. 'Work is freedom,' yeah?"_

_ "You can't –"_

_ "I've had enough, Germany. I lost my taste for this war a long time ago, when I realized that my chances of surviving it were pretty fucking slim."_

_ "What's that supposed to mean?" His face was still blank, not quite comprehending what had overcome his brother._

_ "Do you think there's room for Prussia in your new empire? I don't. It's for Germany. It's _always_ for Germany. I'm just another stepping stone in your leader's lunatic vision. I'm the first nation he'll turn on if he wins; I've been through enough wars to recognize the signs."_

_ Eyes still burning with that mixture of anger and pain, Prussia wiped angrily at his eyes, and turned smartly on one heel towards the damaged door. Germany raised a hand to stop him, but it was unneeded, as just before the door the white haired nation paused, back going rigid. _

_ The next thing Germany knew was that his brother – the man who had helped him get this far, who had cared for him for as long as he could remember – was on his knees, screaming._

_ The sound was unearthly, but the German didn't waste any time scrambling out of his chair. The door, too, flew open, cracking the Prussian nation across the head. He slumped to the floor, but remained unfortunately conscious. Germany lunged for his brother, ignoring the frantic questions of the soldiers._

_ Prussia writhed under his hands, red eyes wide and blind, clawing at himself madly, ripping through parts of his uniform. Germany grabbed at his hand to try and stop it, but all the other did was arch his back, screaming even more, thrashing wildly on the floor._

_ "__**Gilbert!**__Gilbert, what's happening?" He wasn't even sure the other could hear him._

_ "__Mein volk__! Sie verbrennen, sie verbrennen!"Prussia's voice was hoarse, as if the air was being ripped from his lungs by some unseen force. His screaming became one long drawn out noise. Ludwig was quite sure he had never heard such a horrible thing in his life._

_ Eventually the screaming stopped, replaced by wet, poisonous sounds as Prussia hacked up black blood; it spread over the floor in a sinister pool, staining both his and Germany's uniforms. Ludwig didn't care; he wasn't aware of anything else as he sat there, supporting his shaking brother who didn't even know where he was anymore. When the skin over his heart began to bubble and burn under his uniform, the white haired man couldn't summon the air to make anything more than pitiful whining noises._

_ "This is my fault," Ludwig whispered, eyes dark, lost as to what to do. "I'm sorry, brother. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"_

_He said the words until they ran together and lost all meaning, until Prussia collapsed into merciful unconsciousness, left side of his uniform dark with blood and melted to his skin._

With a gasp, Germany wrenched himself awake, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. His eyes were unnaturally wide, but the darkness in the room pressed around him malevolently.

"What the hell…" He pulled himself up into a sitting position, and clenched his hands to stop the trembling. It had been a while since he had dreamt of that day.

The bombing of Prussia's capital had been a terrible thing to witness; for days afterwards, Gilbert had said nothing. He had vanished from Germany's headquarters shortly after he could sneak away, and hadn't returned for some time. When he had, his hair had been grey with ash, his features haunted, and a new bitterness had grown in his heart.

Ludwig ran his hands through his hair, sighing deeply. He still had not heard from his brother, and it was beginning to worry him that he no longer looked up for Gilbird. He was already growing complacent. Ten years, and he was already starting to accept that Prussia was, for the moment, out of his reach, though not for lack of trying. Perhaps the other simply didn't want to talk.

With a groan – it was too early to be thinking such things – the blond man fell back onto his pillow with a thud. A moment or two later, and he had fallen back into an uneasy sleep.

_This time, Gilbert was not bitter. He was not crying, and he was not in the least bit ready to forgive. This time, Ludwig knew, the albino had been pushed too far. And the worst part was, everything that the other was screaming at him was entirely true; he _hadn't_ warned his brother, or his brother's people. And now they had paid the price._

_ The other merely fixed him with an empty red stare whenever Ludwig attempted to say anything. He didn't try to apologize; he knew that words meant little to the hardened warrior. Prussia wanted an action in compensation, and he was not in a position to gift his brother with the terrible revenge that he would expect._

_ He still received reports from the man – but eventually Gilbert came by less frequently. Eventually he stopped delivering them personally altogether, relying instead upon civilians. There were no soldiers to spare. Those reports were grim, clipped, and clearly meant to impart Prussia's exact feelings on the matter._

_ Finally, Germany had disobeyed his boss – for the first time since this war had begun – and gone to find Prussia himself._

_ What he had found couldn't compare to what he was expecting. The proud capital was in ruins; __Königsberg had been utterly crushed by both the previous year's bombings and the Russian attacks. Gilbert himself was faring little better; Germany found him hiding in a hovel of a building, skinny as a rail, vicious as a dog, and his chest _still_ looking like it had been freshly wounded._

_ "They've done it now," the albino had said, laughing softly as Germany propped him up in one of the rickety chairs and pressed a bottle of something strong on him. "They've gone and done it now."_

_ For a moment, Ludwig wondered if this was why his brother hadn't come back – he had gone completely mad. "Done what, Gilbert?" he asked cautiously, half expecting the other to whip out a knife._

_ "Sealed their fate. I'm going to _kill_ that Russian fucker and use his skin for a cape." Prussia laughed again, taking a swig of the bottle. Germany wondered if giving it to him had been such a good idea. "He's killed my soldiers and citizens, raped my women, and stolen everything of value. I haven't got anything left to lose in this war; Prussia is at your fucking service, Ludwig."_

_ "Brother…" Ludwig stared at the other long and hard, a sinking feeling in his chest. Perhaps this was just Gilbert being Gilbert – perhaps he had been alone too long with the pain of his people. "Brother, what if I told you… that I don't want to… to fight anymore?"_

_ Gilbert blinked owlishly at him. "What'dya mean, _don't want to fight anymore_? You _always_ want to fight. I tried to pull that shit on you a year ago – three years ago – and you said no. You said it was for the 'good of the fatherland' or some sappy sentimental shit like that. I can't quit, you can't quit."_

_ Germany sighed. "Haven't enough people died because of us, Gilbert? Because of me? I'm tired of killing. I'm tired of this war. What have we gained?"_

_ "Psh. You don't fight to _gain_. You fight because that's what you have to do to get by. You fight because your boss is a fucking mental ex-artist with a retarded moustache. _I_ fight because you tell me to. You ain't gonna tell me now that I've got to stop, not after this." He gestured vaguely out the window of the dirty hovel._

_ "But that's just _it_. Where does it _stop_? You get back at them, they'll get back at you, until both of you are beaten bloody and choking on your own pride."_

_ Prussia had nearly drained the bottle, but he paused in his drinking at this. "You didn't feel it," he said softly, eyes burning with a light that Germany didn't hesitate to label mad. "You didn't feel my people as they burned. I did. And I won't forgive that." _

_ "I'm not asking you to forgive it, Gilbert, I'm asking you to _let it go_, at least for now. And maybe you and I can get out of this war."_

_ "Why're you suddenly using my name, by the way? For the past five years it's been 'Prussia this' and 'Prussia that,' and now you're calling me Gilbert. Something going on that you aren't telling me about? Well, more than usual, I mean…" Prussia squinted at him, voice sharp. "And next time don't bring me watered down shit. I need something stiff to get through this one."_

_ "We aren't winning this war, _Prussia_," Germany said deliberately, folding his arms. It was painful to admit it. The second war, so soon after the first, with no change in results. All to help his country… and only managing to destroy it all over again. _

_ Gilbert rolled his eyes. "I could've told you that last year, brother," he replied waspishly. "With Russia on their side, and you refusing to send me extra soldiers…"_

_ "For the last time, it wasn't _me_, it was –"_

_ "I know. I need someone to blame. You aren't letting me blame Russia, so I'm blaming you. Because it _is_ your fault I'm in this war to begin with."_

_ Ludwig wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to that. Prussia stared back at him with that strange look in his eyes; steeled and slightly insane. His brother had never been affected so badly in battle… but then again, modern warfare was, they were all learning, not like any kind of battle they had ever faced before. _

_ "I'm sorry."_

_ "Don't be. I hate apologies."_

_ "Just… can you let it go?" Germany leaned forward in earnest, almost pleading. Prussia watched him, red eyes unblinking. "I'm not asking you to _forgive_ Russia… just let it go."_

_ Gilbert's lips thinned and his grip around the bottle tightened slightly. "Fine," he ground out, looking away from Ludwig's blue eyes. "For you. For now."_

_ "Thank you, brother." Uncomfortable quiet followed._

_ "We'd better clear out." This came from Prussia, muttered after the silence stretched too long and thin. "They do random sweeps; I've been moving every couple of hours."_

_ "It's not like we can die." Germany's smile was thin and humorless. _

_ "No. But I'd rather not see how far their creativity stretches, either." He carefully placed the bottle in his hand on the empty space next to the table. _

_Germany watched it fall as if in slow motion, turning over and over in the air. Before it could hit the ground, however, there was a deafening, concussive blast, and he found himself flying forward, thrown into the air by the sheer force of whatever had gone off. Prussia's mouth was open wide in what was probably a yell of surprise, but the younger brother couldn't hear anything, ears still ringing. _

_All at once the sound came back, as if the blast had momentarily sucked it away, and was now giving it back. There was a deep, rumbling _boom_, and while logic told Ludwig that it happened in seconds, it seemed to take minutes for the house to explode around them. He heard an outraged howl from his older brother, but by now dust and debris and smoke were blocking his vision, and he lost sight of the other. He could hear the endless stream of German curse words coming from somewhere in the wrecked crater that had been a house (not much of one) and he tried to follow them (try not to trip on anything). _

"_Gilbert!" He shouted the name, but smoke rushed into his throat and nose, and he choked. "Gilbert, where are you?" No answer._

_Overhead, the warning shriek of shells continued. _

**Fall 1958**

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Ludwig let out a long, low groan, and rolled over, trying to bury his head under the pillow. The one day he tried to actually sleep in seemed to be the day the universe was conspiring to get him up as early as possible.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"Damn it, Feliciano, if that's you, I swear…" he muttered, blearily cracking an eye open as the annoying sounds continued. Pushing his bangs out of his eyes, the German man pulled himself into a sitting position. He took a moment to enjoy the fact that such a movement no longer caused him pain – his wounds from the war had disappeared.

He turned to glare at the only window in his room, prepared to see a chipper Italian tapping on the glass – and nearly fell off the edge of his bed.

Sitting on the windowsill was Gilbird.

Ludwig was on his feet and at the window almost faster than was physically possible. He struggled with the latch for a moment, his hands were shaking so badly, and finally managed to wrench it open – nearly smashing out the panes on the wall.

"_Piyo~!_" With its usual cheerful greeting, the little yellow fluff-ball hopped into the room, choosing to land on Germany's shoulder, which were shaking a good deal less than his hands.

"Gilbird!" His voice was hoarse, both from surprise and due to the early hour. "You came back!"

The chick peeped at him again, and then stuck out one of its legs. Germany nearly shook the poor thing to pieces when he tried to take the tightly rolled paper off – once he had, Gilbird fluttered to the top of his head, nestling in the tangled strands.

Ludwig made his way to the chair in the corner of the room, struggling to unravel the paper. It was a good deal smaller than he had been hoping – and it looked as though it had been written quite hastily, as if the person had been in a great hurry.

_Brother – _

_ Long time no see! Thanks for sending Gilbird. Meant to send him sooner; weather's been really bad, and I don't have much time for letter writing. I want to see you again. Going to try and get away after Christmas. 21:00. Not sure what day. That place we always went to before the war._

_Gilbert._

He had to read it a few times before the message sank in. Eventually his hands lowered, and the scrap of paper settled on his lap. Gilbert was coming? For the first time, he allowed a little bubble of happiness to rise in his chest. It filled him slowly, with a warmth that he had been missing since the end of the war.

"I'll be there," he murmured, receiving a sleepy cheep from the bird on his head in response. _Even if I have to wait every damn day, I'll be there._

**Winter 1959**

In the silent streets of East Berlin, a man was on the move. He flitted from shadow to shadow, quiet as the snow falling around him, and took great pains to keep out of sight of any windows. Occasionally his steps would falter, and he was stumble and have to catch himself against the nearest object. But no matter how bad the stumble – no matter how frequent they were becoming, he continued onward relentlessly.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was thinking of only one destination, and he wasn't about to let something like exhaustion and hunger to slow him down. The scarf that Russia had "gifted" to him was wrapped tightly around his neck and stuffed down the front of the thin coat he had stolen earlier in the journey. The red was still obvious, but the material was _warm_. And in the Russian winter, through which he had traveled, warmth was the difference between life and death.

In his boots, he knew his feet were bloody; they were ill fitting things, but he hadn't bothered to waste time stopping to look for better ones. Every hour he delayed brought Ivan that much closer to his position. So he kept running, taking the most obscure and winding routes he could think of. It was strange to think that, after all these days, Ivan could still be on his trail – but Gilbert couldn't shake the looming sensation that the Russian was right on his heels, and would at any moment reach out and grab his shoulder –

He glanced again at the watch on his wrist – again, stolen from an oblivious passer-by – and cursed softly. Nearly nine. He wasn't sure how long Ludwig would wait past the stated arrival time – and then there were still the border patrol to worry about slipping past. Pulling his collar tighter around his neck to ward off a sudden gust of wind and snow, the albino man pressed forward again, disappearing into the shadows.

* * *

Getting past the barbed wire border had been easier than he expected. The guards were sporadic in their watches, and it had taken him what seemed like minutes of observation to realize that no one was watching his particular section at the moment. After that, it had been relatively simple to get through to the other side – hell, he had gotten out of Russia's house earlier, without the Russian's permission; anything was easy compared to that.

West Berlin was blanketed in a silent white shroud. The streetlights shone off of it, and for a long moment, Gilbert simply stood in the shadow of one of the buildings, looking at it. A wave of nostalgia swept over him; tainted by just the barest hint of anger and jealousy.

_Why do my people not have this? _He wondered silently, hands clenching in his too-long sleeves. _Why are my people robbed of this life, when we didn't even start this war…? _Gritting his teeth, the albino shoved these thoughts as far away from himself as he could. He had promised that he would let go. That he would forget, if not forgive. But sometimes it was difficult, in the darkest hours of the night, huddling in his freezing mockery of a room –

With a mental snarl, the Prussian pushed himself away from the side of the building, and stumbled off down the streets. As he drew closer and closer to his destination, he made sure to slow his steps, to even out his breathing – everything had to look like it was normal, that he was fine, had been allowed to come here. He curled his toes in his too-tight boots, and forced himself to walk without a limp. There wasn't much he could do about his newfound thinness, but he had always been scrawny, and could probably just bluff his way out of that one.

The letter had been his largest worry; he had given up a good deal of his already meager food to make sure that Gilbird would be as fat and fluffy as ever when he arrived at Ludwig's house, so that the other would think nothing was wrong.

_There's nothing the matter. Everything is fine_, he repeated to himself silently, as he stepped through the wrought iron gate and into the dimly lit park. He had chosen this for a reason, so that Germany might not see the strange, pale cast to his scarred eye, or the new shadows that lined his face. _Russia is an ass, as expected, but I'm doing fine, he isn't hurting me, he hasn't done anything, his food is just shit and I'm sick of paperwork… _

Keep it meaningless, light, and superficial. Because he knew if Ludwig tried to dig to the bottom of what had been happening for the past years, he would discover new depths to darkness – depths that Gilbert was determined to shelter him from for as long as possible. _I have forgotten, I have let go, I am not clinging to anything… _

So focused was he on his internal thoughts that he almost missed the only other figure in the park. He glanced at his watch again, and realized that he was a full two hours late. Hesitantly, he moved up towards the other, trying to pick out features to see if it really was Ludwig. His halved vision made such a task difficult, and again he cursed whoever had given him that particular injury.

But his worry was short lived – apparently he hadn't been as well hidden as he had first thought, and the figure on the bench stirred and looked directly at him. Blue eyes grew wide, with surprise, disbelief, and joy all mingled in one expression.

"Gil –" Emotion made his voice hoarse and strangled as the other man half stood from the bench, heedless of the snow that had gathered on his shoulders while he had been sitting there.

"Long time no see," Gilbert replied, forcing a smile onto his face. He was already regretting this meeting.

Germany hesitated a moment longer, and then he was on his feet and running. He crossed the gap between them in moments, and wrapped his older brother in a bone crushing hug. Gilbert remained unresponsive for a moment, almost unsure how to react, before his arms came up, and despite himself, he was burying his face in Ludwig's shoulder, hugging back as tightly as he could.

"I've missed you," he whispered; in the silence surrounding them, the words seemed so much louder.

"I've missed you too," Ludwig replied roughly. He wondered to himself when Gilbert had gotten so thin – he felt as if the other would break in his grasp if he squeezed hard enough. They stood there, under the trees, trying to press the memory of the other into themselves through sheer physical contact. Around them, the snow started falling softly, filling the world with a soft, superficial silence.

"Ok… enough hugging now," Gilbert said at last, voice muffled by Ludwig's coat. "I haven't hugged you since you were… good god, I don't even remember."

Germany laughed softly. "We were hugging goodbye, brother," he said back, unable to remain bitter about it. His doubts were pushed away – Gilbert was still _Gilbert_; skinnier or not.

"Oh." The word felt flat and sour in his mouth, and suddenly their contact became awkward.

The two of them gradually pulled apart, and simply stood there, staring at one another. Gilbert couldn't help but notice, with a twinge of jealousy, that Ludwig was looking stronger and healthier than he had before the war. Not to mention that he was pretty sure he had gotten taller – Gilbert didn't remember having to look up this far at him before their separation.

"You're looking well, brother," he said eventually. "I'm glad that you haven't starved yourself to death pining over my absence." _You should have been._ It was a bit of a struggle to keep the accusation out of his voice.

"You're looking skinny, Gilbert. Are you eating enough over there? Russia isn't keeping food from you, is he?" Ludwig was painfully aware that he sounded like an overprotective mother.

"Eh." _Of course I'm not. You know as well as I do what Russia's like. And you know how he and I felt about one another _well_ before the end of this war._ Prussia waved a hand noncommittally. "You know how it is. We're all a bit pinched for food right now… especially under _his_ government system. So disorganized they couldn't even sell milk, if they had it." It was official. This meeting had been a bad idea.

Gilbert loved his little brother to death, he really did. But he hadn't survived as a nation as long as he had based on charitable feelings alone. There was some streak of self preservation still within him that was demanding to know why _he_ had to suffer, when the real cause of the war was standing right in front of him, right as rain, with that _stupid_, uncertain smile that he had no right to be wearing.

The other half of him was trying to shove those nasty thoughts as far away as possible, so as not to spoil their first reunion in over ten years. It was proving to be a surprisingly difficult struggle, and a moment that should have been sweet was being tainted with bitterness. In the time he had spent wrestling with himself, the silence between them had once again become awkward.

"Are your injuries healing up?" Germany was looking down at him with that worried expression on his face, brow furrowed.

"Psh. Like they would have kept me down for long," Gilbert said back, stretching his lips in a parody of a grin. "They're fine. Between me and Lithuania, we managed to clean me up pretty well." This part, at least, was true. His injuries had scarred over – and while his left side was covered in hard, raised ridges and whorls of shiny scar tissue, the only trouble it have him was stiffness in the cold of the morning. His eye hadn't improved much; everything was still a dark, indistinct blur when he bothered to try and see.

"Russia hasn't been hurting you, has he?" There was a sudden hoarseness in Germany's voice; he had been tearing himself apart with worry over what was happening to his brother on the other side of that barrier.

"As if I'd let that asshole so much as touch me," Gilbert sniffed, acting offended at the mere thought that Russia could ever lay so much as a hand on his awesomeness.

Germany didn't buy it. "Gil… I'm serious. He hasn't done anything to you, has he?"

The fading bruises under his jacket twinged at the question. The soles of his feet, bloody in their boots, suddenly hurt. Gilbert was briefly consumed by an irrational desire to tell his younger brother everything that had happened; to cling to him and beg him to bring him back home – and to demand why he hadn't done that already.

"… He pushes me around a bit, yeah," he muttered finally, looking away. "It's Ivan. That's what he does. But it isn't like he's holding me to the floor and raping me." _Yet, anyway. _"I've got a couple of pretty spectacular bruises, but that's mostly because the bastard refuses to salt his sidewalk." _And because of that stupid fucking pipe that you gave him. _"But enough about me. My life's fine. All in order. My chicks are, as they say, in a line."

"Speaking of chicks…" Germany grinned, reached up to his head, and pulled down the ball of yellow fluff that had been hiding in his hair for the past few hours. Gilbird cheeped loudly when he set eyes on his master, and fluttered from Germany's outstretched hands to Gilbert's.

"Gilbird!" The joy felt fake. It was. He had wanted Germany to keep his pet. Russia had, so far, not made any moves to do anything to it… it was only a matter of time.

"Nearly scared the hell out of me when he got here. I thought he was Italy tapping on my window." Germany laughed, having missed the flash of disappointment that had crossed Gilbert's face.

The albino carefully reached up and placed Gilbird on his head. Despite the familiar eight, he still felt out of place; and it wasn't just the rapidly cooling blood in his boots. This wasn't turning out how he had thought it was. He wasn't, obviously, as well adjusted to his separation as he thought he was.

"How're you doing, Ludwig? You look less like road-kill than you did last time I saw you. How're the people?" Gilbert couldn't meet his brother's eyes; he didn't want the burning coil of resentment in his stomach to shine through his eyes.

Ludwig sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, brushing the gathered snow off. Gilbert seemed intent on keeping this conversation in the depressing category. "The people… are getting by. They're still reeling. Hell, _I'm_ still reeling. They're not sure what to do just yet… but they're getting past it. My Berliners are very upset about the division."

_Your Berliners_. Gilbert's hand clenched into a fist in the pocket of his coat. _They're mine too, Ludwig. _"Well… you can't really blame them."

"I don't."

"Good."

The funnel of silence surrounding them in the falling snow suddenly seemed oppressive. Gilbert rubbed his arms, glancing over his shoulders. Though he was beyond the border, on the West side – he couldn't shake the feeling that Russia was still behind him, following him with those slow, measured steps of his. The wind was suddenly cutting, and he shivered unconsciously.

"This is awkward," he said eventually, shoving his hands back into his pockets. He looked up at Ludwig, and saw that sad truth reflected there as well. It had been a long while, and it was as if there was something in between them.

Germany sighed, and copied the motion. "Yeah. Has is really been that long?"

This time Prussia's smile was genuinely painful. "I guess it has. Thirteen years is a long time."

"A very long time."

Both of them looked in opposite directions, two shadows in the park; a caricature of lost potential and emotion. They had never been very good at expressing feelings – and it seemed that was holding true.

"Why'd you do it?" Germany's expression was suddenly pained, and he shuffled his feet, creating drifts in the snow.

"Do what?" Prussia's voice had a slightly sharper edge than he had intended. _Great job. Way to lift suspicious. Truly you are the epitome of subtle. _

"I heard rumors before it came into effect, you know. They weren't ever talking about you. It was about _me_. They thought you had just gone along with it."

_ Oh. Shit_. "England and France have wanted to get rid of me for a long time, Ludwig. This provided their excuse to do it."

"France didn't seem like that after the meeting. He stormed out as quickly as he could." Germany reached out, and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You have to stop trying to protect me, brother. I don't need you to anymore. Just tell me. Why'd you go?"

Gilbert looked up from the snow, and his red eyes were filled with a strange mix of feelings. "Because they were going to send _you_," he said at last, the words spat out as if poisonous.

Something inside him seemed to freeze. "… And you took my place?" His voice was soft, and even in the darkness around them, it was hard to hear.

Gilbert looked away again, and shrugged off Ludwig's hand off of his shoulder. "What would you have done?" he mumbled, turning away. "They were going to take you away. I promised when I found you all those years ago that I'd never let anything happen to you." Honestly, I'm surprised Francis didn't tell you. Usually he has problems keeping his mouth shut."

"I kicked France out of my house over a decade ago. He kept coming by, and it was creepy." Germany's chuckle was only slightly strangled. "So he never got the chance."

"That would do it." Gilbert's smile was, for a moment, reflected in his eyes. It faded quickly, though, leaving his red eyes dimming again.

"So… you just did it to… save me?" Germany came up behind him again, and the hand was back. Gilbert wished he would stop doing that. "There wasn't any… other reason?"

"Should there have been?" He turned his head, dead looking eyes narrowed slightly.

"Gil… you weren't exactly… normal." It was difficult for him to get the words out; admitting your older brother and role model had momentarily lost his mind. "At the end of the war, I mean."

"_Oh_." Gilbert shrugged, ignoring the tugging sensation it caused up his left side. "That. No. It wasn't about that." He paused. "It was never about that." _At least as far as you're concerned, Ludwig._

"Good."

Sighing, the albino man leaned back, allowing himself to rest his – insignificant – body weight against the pillar that his brother seemed to have become.

"I'm sorry about this," Gilbert said eventually. "I didn't want this meeting to turn out this way." They had spent what seemed like forever, standing there in the snow. He didn't feel the cold much anymore. The blood in his boots had solidified at last; his socks were sticking to their bottoms.

"We'd have to be extremely optimistic to imagine this going entirely happily," Ludwig murmured back, wrapping his harms around his older brother. For a moment, he felt like _he_ was the older of the two – it didn't help that Gilbert was so much skinner than he had been before the war.

"Yeah, that's us," the shorter said, half smiling. "Two optimistic peas in a pod."

"Mmhm."

This time, as they stood there, watching the snow swirl down to gather on the ground, the silence wasn't tense with things left unspoken. They were comfortable standing there – two brothers who hadn't seen each other in a long while, surrounded by darkness and flickering park lights.

"Thanks for coming," Ludwig murmured at last, resting his chin on Gilbert's head. "It's the best New Year's gift I've ever gotten."

"It hardly beats the lingerie that I bought you when you turned eighteen." The albino chuckled weakly.

"It's less mortifying, at least. And less pink."

"You didn't answer my question, by the way." Prussia closed his eyes, sighing heavily. "I want to know how _you're_ doing, without my awesome presence to keep you young."

He felt Germany shrug more than saw it. "I'm doing better. I'm not… lonely, exactly. Feliciano comes by as often as Romano lets him, and America seems to have taken to dropping by recently. The house seems emptier, though."

"And Apache? He's adjusting well?" Why did the conversation sound so fake and superficial to him – as if they weren't really talking about anything of significance?

"Your wolf? He's fine. More than fine. He eats all my food and he's still hungry. Sort of like someone else I could mention."

"Shut up, you. He's a husky, not a wolf."

On his wrist, Gilbert heard the faint beeping of his watch. His brows furrowed, and with a great deal of reluctance, he pulled himself away from his brother. Germany grunted in surprise at the movement, but didn't try to tug Prussia back. The albino turned and looked up, and sighed.

"I have to get going, Ludwig," he said at last. _I've been here too long, and it's only caused us both more pain._

"… Alright." The concession was clearly made with reluctance, but Germany, too, could sense the distance that was between the two of them now; he didn't want to try and force Prussia to stay. "Will you try and get back again, sometime?"

_No._ "I'll try. No promises." His grin twitched slightly. "I'll send Gilbird along with the message if I'm going to come."

"Ok."

"… Well… I guess this is goodbye. Again." He shuffled his feet uncomfortably; he had never been good with the whole emotional parting thing.

"Take care of yourself, _Preußen_," Germany said softly. "I'll find a way to bring you home soon."

"That would be…" Gilbert couldn't think of what to say. It would be _nice_ to be home… but he wasn't sure what would happen if the barrier came down; if there was no longer a clear division between East and West Germany. "… Awesome." His trademark grin appeared again, though this time even Germany could tell that it was slightly forced. "You take care of yourself too, _Deutschland_."

Gilbert stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Don't let this country go to ruin without me, brother," he said, laugh slightly strangled. "And I haven't forgotten that promise of beer for when I get back."

"Of course not." Ludwig fought to get the words around the sudden tightness in his throat. "I'll see you again soon, Gil."

"Soon," his brother agreed, nodding.

And like that, he was gone. Stealing away into the darkness, scarf fluttering behind him; a red accusation directed right at Ludwig. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and the German man found part of himself regretting the meeting. Ten years was a long time, and both of them had changed. There was something different about the other now; a new coldness and a new distance that hadn't been there before the separation. Something else was there too, though Ludwig wasn't sure if he had seen it or merely imagined it; something lurking.

"Don't do anything stupid, Gilbert," he muttered, staring at the vague shape that he could still see, moving silent and swift down the street. He watched until he couldn't see his brother anymore; until the sky started to lighten and the snow was thick on his shoulders – as if by simply looking, he could bring the Prussian – the last Prussian – back into his sights.

**Summer 1961**

_Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop…_

He was curled in the corner of his room, hair plastered to his forehead. Prussia's eyes were shut, wandering wildly beneath his lids as his forehead burned and his body felt like it was being torn apart.

_What the hell is this?_

It had started not too long ago; a strange feeling in his chest, as if his heart were being chewed to pieces. Now that sickness had spread, and his entire body felt like it was being pulled and tugged. His people cried out in misery, but he didn't know _why_. Russia had refused to let him out of this room for some time, and he damn well _knew_ it was something that Ivan had cooked up.

He was hardly aware of the door opening, of the footsteps that crossed the room with a measured pace, stopping next to him. The metal pipe poking him in the side, when all he wanted to do was to be left alone, got his attention. His eyes cracked open, slivers of red shining brightly; too brightly.

"This is an interesting reaction." Ivan smiled down at him, his violet eyes filled with a sadistic glee.

Prussia turned his head enough to spit at the other. "What the _hell_ have you done, Russia?" he rasped, opening his eyes just a bit further. Even in the cloudy, sightless one, fever burned brightly.

"I've made sure that you won't leave me," the other said, smiling in what he probably thought was a cheerful way. To Prussia, who could barely focus on the other, it merely looked twisted.

"Screw… you," the albino groaned, his words drawing out as a sudden stab of pain shot through his middle.

"Now, now. That's no way to talk to your savior, little GDR. I've made sure that you'll never fade."

A sudden chill spread through Gilbert as he heard those words. Somehow he found the strength to shift enough to face the Russian fully. His eyes were filled with a strange rage now, sweat beading on his brow. His hands reached out, and before Ivan could step away, Prussia locked his fingers onto the edge of his coat. Using the Russian as prop, Gilbert hauled himself into a standing position. He had to stand on his toes, and still barely reached Ivan's eyes.

"What. Have. You._ Done?" _His grip spasmed, and he nearly fell; Ivan stumbled slightly, eyes wide with something that was close to alarm.

Russia put a hand on Gilbert's chest and shoved – the other lost his tenacious grip and staggered back into the wall. "You'll never leave now," he said softly, moving until he had the other pressed right up against the cool stone. "You'll be a member of this family forever, GDR." That sick, twisted smile appeared on his face again. "And now… I can do whatever I want to you, _Gilbert_. Now the rest of the world won't know." His words ended on a giggle.

"Just spit it out, you smug bastard… what've you done to me?"

Russia leaned in closer, in such a way that Prussia found he couldn't flinch away without outright dropping to the floor. "I've made the barrier permanent," he said softly. In the ringing silence that followed, he might as well have shouted it.

"… What?" Prussia's voice came out hoarse, and his eyes widened. The sickening sensation in his heart grew.

"I've made sure that you'll _never_ get out to see your beloved West again, you ungrateful little fool." Ivan laughed softly. "Physical punishment is hardly enough to… make an impression on you, GDR, you've made that clear."

The scars, still raw, on Gilbert's back ached at the comment – Russia had been far from happy when he had returned from his secret meeting with Germany. Hours bought in blood and pain and a chill in his heart that had yet to fade. But even as he stood there, his knees growing weaker by the second, something bright was burning in his stomach; a little tiny coil, innocent enough at any other time.

"I've built a wall, GDR. A wall to keep you here with me forever, away from the rest of the world."

Prussia felt his shoulders start to shake in a detached sort of way, as if it was happening to a stranger. A pounding began in his brain, a thudding that beat a tattoo on the inside of his skull. Everything was tinted red; red like fire and Communism and the blood of his people as it ran through the gutters of his ruined capital. He could hear a strangled, rasping sound coming from somewhere, and it took a moment to realize that it was _him_, and that he standing there, pressed against a wall, and that he was laughing, and laughing, and it was grating on his ears and sounded like the laugh of a madman.

"Stop it." Russia's order came as if through electrical fuzz; muffled by the pounding in his brain; the drums of war, the blood running through his heart, the building rage of his people. He saw more than felt the punch delivered to his chest; heard the cracking of his ribs in a detached sort of way. "Stop _laughing_!"

His mouth was filled with thick liquid, and everything was redred_red_, and he could see his capital burning as his brother did nothing, saw his people murdered and raped by Russians and left discarded in the snow like so much trash. He spat it in Ivan's face, because he had been waiting for so _long_ for a chance, and now he had been handed it by his own worst enemy. And even as the darkness closed around his vision, and the red faded to black as Ivan grabbed his head and smashed it against the stone, Prussia was laughing, blood running down his chin, blood to match the red of his burning eyes, the violence burning in his heart, and to feed the tiny coil of glee that was growing in his stomach.

They were apart from the world; blocked off by a wall of stone from the sight of the world, and more importantly his brother, who couldn't make him keep his promise of there was such a barrier between them because he wouldn't _know_.

And as Gilbert sank to the floor, head bloody and ribs cracked, his only thought was of revenge.

* * *

(1) "Damn!"

(2) "You will not win, Ivan…"

(3) Germany

(4) Prussia

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Hey guys~! I'm still here! And this is why you've had to wait so long for this chapter - nearly 16,000 words worth of story! That's... kind of really huge. Probably the longest bloody chapter I've ever written._

_If the conversation between Germany and Prussia wasn't as heartfelt and tender as you might have expected... well, it was sort of meant to feel really awkward. I dunno. It was probably the hardest scene for me to write out of this whole thing._

**_Also! _**_I'm a regular participant in NaNoWriMo, which takes place in November. As such, I probably won't be starting Chapter 8 for some time. Hopefully this will tide you guys over for that period. I may try to update, but I can't promise anything._

_Writing a drunken Russia was the most fun I've had in a really long time... the poor dear. XDD_

_As for the ending... well, I wanted to do something different with this fanfiction. Can you believe the entire reason for writing Soluble was for that two-page scene? Yeah. I have problems, evidently._

_If you've read this chapter, _please_ review! It means a lot to me! If you're looking to know if I'm updating, feel free to PM me! _

_Ok. Enough author notes. _

_Have an awesome Halloween!_

_~ Pheleon._


	8. Divided We Fall

**Soluble Chapter Eight: Divided We Fall**

_"Insanity in individuals is something rare, but in groups, parties, nations and epochs it is the rule."_

_- Fredrich Nietzsche_

**Warning (again): **There is much abuse of the word "fuck" throughout this chapter, and various other swear words, once again courtesy of Gilbert's really bad mouth. Also, some violence. And some confusing bits.

* * *

**Winter 1961**

_Toris – _

_ Sorry for leaving this in such an awkward place. I figured it was one of the few that Russia _wouldn't_ go casually rummaging through. He's been everywhere lately; I don't want to say anything out loud. Raivis wanted to say something too, but for once he's showing some tact._

_ Do you have any idea what the hell is wrong with Ivan? He's been really angry lately, and you're the one who's with him most…_

_- Eduard_

_Eduard – _

_ Awkward is an understatement. And don't go underestimating Ivan. I don't know what's wrong with him, but yes, he has been – different. I think it might have something to do with Gilbert. I haven't seen him lately either. Ivan's not letting him come upstairs. Any idea what that's about? You're the one who brings meals down there now._

_- Toris_

_Lithuania – _

_ Putting this in the sugar jar, because it isn't like Ivan ever actually gets his own. I don't have any news on the GDR. I bring food down, but Russia's usually with me, and he makes me leave it at the door. I'm not even sure if Gilbert's _getting_ any of it. It wouldn't surprise me if he weren't._

_ Did you see Ivan's face today? Someone did a number on him. I wonder if Hungary was acting up again. I think she's too troublesome for him to handle._

_- Estonia_

_Eduard – _

_I saw that – looked like someone punched him square in the face. I wonder if he nose is broken again. _

_ I'm going to try and get a letter to Hungary, and see if she can't come over. From what I remember she and Gilbert were friends, and if anyone can force Ivan to let him out of that basement for even a few days, it'll be her._

_ He's kept him down there for half a year, for god's sake. You were right in saying he hasn't got any humanity left._

_Sorry for the location, by the way – he came in when I was halfway through writing this, so I had to shove it somewhere._

_- Toris_

_Lithuania – _

_ Be careful, Toris. Getting other people involved in this might not be the best idea. Gilbert's proven himself to be strong, and you know as well as I do that people who "visit" Ivan's house tend not to leave. Don't pull Hungary into something._

_ And out of all the places in the fridge you could have shoved your last letter, you had to pick the _butter_, Toris? _

_ Personally, I can't believe it took you this long to admit it._

_- Estonia_

_Lithuania and Estonia_

_ I'm leaving this where you'll both find it. Please stop assuming that I'm so dense as to not notice you passing notes. I'll ask that you please stop. I don't like secrets._

_ Rest assured that the little GDR is fine. He just needs some time to think about what he's done, and doesn't require your concern. And if you're going to invite Hungary over, that would be nice. This house still seems so empty._

_And for the record, Estonia, I found that first note before Litva did. :)_

_- Ivan_

_P.S. You can start calling me by my proper country name in your letters any time you like._

* * *

**Spring 1962**

He was walking slowly, reluctantly, down the dusty road. Had it been anyone else, it would have been apt to describe his step as dragging. Of course, dragging his feet wasn't something _this_ particular nation ever did, and so he was merely taking his time.

Roderich Edelstein let out a long, breathy sigh, and wondered why he was even doing this. The two of them weren't even very good friends – hadn't been even when they had been in an alliance and living together. It was, he decided, out of some misplaced (and entirely irrational) guilt that he had decided to come and visit the other nation.

He pushed his glasses further up his nose, and stopped at the driveway of one particular house. Part of him was wishing that Germany wouldn't even be home, but the sleek black car parked in the driveway dashed that hope almost immediately. He tried to find a reason to not go up to the front door – a messy lawn, newspapers piled on the doorstep – but had no luck. Everything was neat; no newspapers littered the porch, and each blade of grass on the lawn had been butchered into short obedience.

_Why do I do this to myself?_ Austria thought, and bracing himself, started up the path. If Elizveta could see him now, he just knew she would be laughing at the absurdity of what he was about to do. Before he could think better of it, the nation reached out a hand and firmly pressed the doorbell. There was a pause, like the house was taking a breath as the sound rang inside, and then it seemed – to Roderich at least – that all hell broke loose.

There was vicious barking, and the door shuddered as something ran into it from the other side. Gulping, and wondering what kind of beast had been brought here, Austria took a small step back. From inside, he could hear a stream of words that would have made a soldier blush, and a sharp yelp. There was a click as the lock turned in the door, and then it opened slightly.

"What?" A harassed looking Ludwig peered through the opening. From what Austria could see – which wasn't much – he hadn't slicked his hair back today.

_He looks like a backwater farmer_, Roderich thought to himself, trying not to look horrified. His eyes flicked down, and he nearly jumped upon seeing another face looking at him – this one considerably less harassed and quite a lot furrier than the other.

"Oh, Austria, it's you." Ludwig's words broke him out of the slight stupor he had fallen into. Roderich shook himself mentally, and looked back at the other Germanic nation. "'Afternoon."

"Good _evening_, actually," he corrected, a tiny smile twitching up the corner of his mouth. "Or hadn't you noticed that it's past dinner?"

The look on Ludwig's face answered the question. "I've been busy," he muttered – if it had been anyone besides Germany, who usually had the emotional range of a teaspoon, Roderich would have said he was sullen.

He looked down at the dog still trying to shoulder its way out of the door, tongue lolling out of its mouth and grinning like a maniac. "I can see that," he said delicately.

"Apache, get back in the house," Ludwig grumbled, putting a leg through the door and trying to shove the animal physically. "Anyway, what do you want?"

"Well, you could be a little politer about it. I did come all the way out here." Austria tried not to smile as Ludwig's attempts to get the thing inside continued to have no effect whatsoever. "I haven't seen this one before. When'd you get him?"

He missed the pained look that crossed the German's face. "He's not actually mine," Ludwig said quietly. "He's – Gilbert's. I'm just looking after him." He managed a short lived chuckle. "And he's turning out to be a handful."

"Just like his owner always is," the Austrian muttered out of the corner of his mouth. He looked at the dog again, and its wild, mismatched eyes almost reminded him of the absent albino nation.

His words startled a bit of a laugh out of the normally stoic German, though there was a slight edge of something raw and broken to it. Unfortunately, the words also accompanied a lapse in Ludwig's efforts to keep the husky firmly behind the door. With a bark that was very nearly a laugh, Apache shouldered his way out and before Roderich could even process what was happening, launched himself at the startled Austrian.

To the accompaniment of two shouts of surprise, the nation and the dog went down in a tangle of limbs, fur, and coattails. With a loud thud, Austria fell backwards onto the porch, the weight of the husky – who was not exactly a _light_ animal – making the fall that much harder, and subsequently shoving the air forcefully out of his lungs.

"Agh –" Roderich managed to get a sound of pain out before the dog shifted itself on top of him, crushing his ribcage again. When the nation stopped seeing stars, he became conscious of the fact that far from helping him, Germany was leaning against the doorframe, a smile on his face.

"Get this damn dog _off_ of me, Ludwig!" Austria's voice was indignant as he struggled uselessly against Apache's weight. He glared at the animal, trying to communicate his sudden and burning desire to kill it through a stare.

The husky stared right back at him with those slightly mad eyes, tongue hanging out again, and looking altogether too pleased with himself. His tail started to wag slowly, head tilted to the side. _What's that look for?_ It seemed to be asking.

_You know perfectly well what, you little – _Austria narrowed his eyes again, but the longer he stared into that face, the harder time he had holding on to his anger. The husky was staring at him with a look that almost exactly mimicked the one its supposed owner always wore when he had done something to annoy him.

The husky let out a little bark, and shifted on his chest again, tail waving wildly now, ears perked up.

"Germany," Roderich growled with what little air was left in his lungs. "Instead of just standing there, why don't you get this stupid animal off of me?"

Though he couldn't see the other nation from his position – flatted out on the porch – he heard boots clomping across the wood, and moments later, was witness to Apache being _pulled into the air_. Sitting up and rubbing his bruised ribcage, Austria glared at Ludwig, who was standing beside him with an expression carefully wiped blank of any sort of emotion. The husky was practically tucked under one arm. It comforted Roderich somewhat to see that Ludwig hadn't actually picked the entire dog up, just his front half.

"Must you abuse my pride every time I come over here?" he asked, cleaning his glasses, still sitting on the porch.

"You can't blame me for that," Ludwig said, and the Austrian was almost – but not really, because of course he didn't consider Ludwig his friend – relieved to hear that there was a bit more life in his tone. "I'm not the one who sat on you. If anything, it's your poor reflexes that are at fault."

"Right," Austria deadpanned, finally pulling himself up off of the floor, making a show of dusting himself off. He kept one eye on Apache, who Ludwig was let back onto all fours, and who was treating him to a mischievous look.

"So why're you here, Roderich?" Germany's arms were crossed over his chest now, and he was looking at the other nation with something that was almost – but not quite – suspicion.

_Right. I actually came here for something._ The Austrian coughed to cover up the awkwardness. "Well, Ger – Ludwig," he said quietly, looking firmly at the wooden boards of the porch. "I was wondering if you… ah… might… if you aren't doing something already, of course… like to accompany me to a pub?"

The awkward silence was worse than he had been anticipating, as Germany simply stared at him, eyebrows slightly raised. A vaguely bemused – and slightly disturbed – expression flitted across his face before Ludwig could hide it.

Roderich coughed into his sleeve, taking his glasses off to polish again. "It's not that strange," he said defensively, placing the frames back on his nose. "I went out drinking with your brother and Elizveta all the time when we were younger."

Ludwig seemed to be struggling with something. "From what I understood," he said instead, words carefully neutral, "that was because both of them threatened to beat you if you didn't."

The Austrian felt a light flush rise to his cheeks. "So what?" he said, voice a bit snappy, looking away. "If you don't want to go, then that's fine, but just say so."

Now it was Ludwig's turn to be awkward. He didn't _dislike_ Roderich – though the other could be a bit stuffy and overbearing at times – but he wasn't sure he wanted to go out and have drinks with the man.

"I see." Austria seemed to be taking his hesitant silence as an answer in itself. He glanced again at the husky, who stared back at him with a lopsided gaze and who seemed to be laughing. "It was nice seeing you, Ludwig."

The Austrian turned on one heel, rearranging his coat, and started to stride away. A hand on his shoulder stopped him, and he looked around to see the German, looking as uncomfortable as Roderich currently felt.

"Look… Austria… it's not… I'll go. Just let me change." Ludwig took his hand off the other the minute he turned, as though the touch burned. "I'll be out in a minute. Wait here." Without further comment, Germany turned and disappeared into the house, dragging the husky with him.

_Now I know why Alfred made me come here_. Austria leaned against the wall of the house, fiddling with his glasses. _I didn't think the Wall would do _that_ to him. It was hard on me too, but…_

His musing was interrupted a few minutes later as the door opened, and a much more presentable Germany stepped through. His hair was in its usual style again, and it was if he had never opened the door looking like he had just pulled himself out of bed. Between his legs, the husky's mad eyes laughed at Austria, tongue still hanging out, and looking as smug as ever.

"Right." Germany shoved the dog back behind the door with a foot, pulling it shut before it could make another break for it. The key scraped in the lock, and the intimidating blonde man turned to look down at the Austrian. "Where did you want to go?"

Feeling awkward was starting to be something of a familiar sensation, and Roderich decided that he _really_ didn't like it. "I am – unfamiliar with the area," he muttered, not meeting Ludwig's eyes. "I figured –"

The other almost cracked a smile. "I know a good place we can walk to. Come on."

* * *

"So, what possessed you to ask me out for drinks?" Germany was leaning with one elbow on the bar, tapping his fingers absently on the glass they were curled around. "You don't really strike me as the type for – well – this scene."

Austria, who was sitting with his usual rigid-backed posture, swirled the contents of his wineglass around a bit, before taking a sip. "You and I were friends, once," he said, glancing sideways at the other. "Is it so hard to believe that I just want to catch up?"

"I'm not that dense, you know," Ludwig said flatly, taking a gulp of his drink. He set it down a bit harder than necessary, the liquid nearly spilling out over the rim. "You've had how many years to decide to 'catch up' with me, and you just happen to pick _now_? You never _were_ a very good liar, Roderich, and your skills haven't improved much."

The brunette sighed, and put his glass down, turning in his seat so that he could look at the other squarely. "You really want to know? Fine. Alfred made me."

Ludwig's eyebrows rose. "Jones? Why would he –?"

"He said you weren't letting him in the house anymore, or something like that, and that he wanted someone to check if you were still alive." Austria fiddled with his glasses. "At least I think that's what he said. It was over the phone, and he was eating those hamburgers of his again."

Germany's mouth twisted slightly, before he could force it back into a neutral line. "I'm fine. I don't know why the damn American keeps asking me that. He phones my house, sends me letters, and now apparently plots with other nations. You didn't need to do this to see if I was alive. Was the point to get me drunk enough that I'd start spilling out my feelings?" There was a note of anger in his tone now.

Austria's expression was faintly taken aback. "Look, Germa – Ludwig. I know you and I haven't ever been close, but – you're the only one who even knows _remotely_ what it's like. I know you lost your brother, and that gives you license to be bitter and angry over everything, but you need to remember that you aren't the only one who's lost someone to that fucking Russian's experiment." His glasses flashed in the dull light of the bar, and he was glad for a moment that the sounds of the other patrons had drowned out his rant.

"I –" Germany made a strangled sound, and his hand clenched spasmodically around the glass – so tightly that for a moment Austria feared that it might explode. "I don't believe I've ever heard you swear before, Roderich," he said carefully, relaxing his hand with obvious effort.

Austria laughed, though it was a slightly choked thing. "First time for everything, and all that." He took another drink. "But honestly… Even if America hadn't asked me to, I would have anyway. What happened… no one should have to go through that alone. And it isn't like anyone else would understand. Elizveta sometimes gets letters through, but they're few and far between." Roderich sighed, and stared into his wineglass.

"At least you get letters from her. I haven't heard anything from Gilbert since… 1959." A stiff meeting in the snow, where Ludwig had pretended that he hadn't noticed how Gilbert's body winced when he was hugged. "And he and Russia…" The German took another gulp of beer, expression strange. "They aren't exactly friendly."

Austria looked to the side, staring at the two unattended glasses sitting by his right elbow. They were each filled half-way, and though the bartender kept on looking at them in a faintly suspicious way, they would remain untouched. A mute toast to two absent people who by right should have been there, both laughing at the absurdity of the entire situation.

"Ludwig… I'm sure I hardly need to tell you," Austria started, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the background noise. "But your brother's strong. He's gone through a lot, and he'll get through this." He raised his glass, and Germany followed suit. "A toast," the Austrian said, his smile small and painful. "To missing friends and family. May they return safe and sound." The glasses clinked together, sounding absurdly loud, and just a bit sad.

Germany drained the rest of his glass in one go, and sat it down heavily, staring into the bottom of it, watching the foam slowly dissolve. _Gilbert_, he thought, as if the other could somehow hear him, _Gilbert, wherever you are, I hope you're alright…_

* * *

"Try again!" Prussia's laughter echoed throughout the room, accompanied by the sound of metal clinking against metal. "Or at least try _harder_. West gave me worse than this when he was growing up, and that was by _accident_."

There was a wet, cracking sound, and Gilbert's head snapped back against the wall, his eyes momentarily rolling back in his head. The white haired man let out a grunt, blood pouring from his nose down his chin, splashing onto the tattered remnants of his uniform. Lately patching it up hadn't really been on his priority list.

"You can't last forever, GDR," Ivan said cheerfully, wiping his bloody knuckles absently on his coat. "And when you give in, you'll be all mine, da?"

Gilbert spat a mouthful of blood at his captor, sorely wishing he could return the punch to the face. His arms, chained to the wall in such a way that it was uncomfortable no matter what position he was in, shook with the desire to do so. "I can last a pretty damn long time, _Soviet_," he snapped, voice sounding slightly off. "Long enough for your silly little Wall to crumble to dust."

"Someone else tried to escape today, did you know?" Russia's voice was still conversational, as his eyes wandered around the even sparser room. The rickety table was gone now, as was the thin mattress. The forbidding little bedroom had become, in a short time, nothing more than a dungeon. "Yes, they tried to get over my _silly little Wall_." He giggled quietly, running his tongue over his lips. "Do you know what happened?"

The raised red marks, perfect little circles, that peppered Gilbert's chest under his uniform seemed to twinge. While one citizen couldn't make him bleed, he had so few left, each was acutely more painful. "Enlighten me," the Prussian said, breathing slightly ragged. His arms trembled, the chains rattling louder now, and he unconsciously shifted his stance to a defensive posture.

Russia's grin grew even wider, stretching across his entire face, and his eyes flashed. "The guards saw him. Shot him down where he stood. There was so much blood all over the street, so much red. Like this room. You haven't been keeping it clean, have you, GDR? Even after I gave it to you."

"Kind of hard," Prussia said, voice deadpan, "to clean when you can't move two fucking feet away from the wall, yeah? And it's not like the bird can do much." The bird, currently, was sitting on the sill of the tiny window, little body pressed right into the corner, where Gilbert ad ordered it to go – the better to keep it out of Russia's grasping little fingers.

Russia's smile didn't even flicker. "Da, I suppose it is."

This time Prussia saw the fist coming for his face, and he moved quickly enough to dodge it. Ivan let out a curse in Russian as his hand connected with the cement behind Gilbert's head, stained with dried blood. Despite the pain the sudden movement had caused in his arms, Gilbert let out a laugh, and with what little slack the chains around his wrists allowed, slammed straight into Ivan's chest. With an undignified grunt, the larger man stumbled backwards. Though connecting with the other's ribcage had caused the dull throb in his head to grow even worse, Gilbert's grin was triumphant.

Or at least, it was until he realized – a little late – that Ivan's good hand had been holding his scarf. With a choking sound, Gilbert found his head jerked forward, whole body straining forward as the heavier Russian fell backwards.

"Let… go… of me…" Gilbert growled, cheeks turning red as the other deliberately kept his grip on the fabric.

"I think you don't quite understand what your being under my control means, little GDR," Russia said quietly, standing up but not releasing his hold. The albino's cheeks had flushed to a brilliant red, veins standing out in his forehead as he struggled for air. Ivan tugged on the scarf hard, and Gilbert let out a groan as his entire body strained against the chains keeping him attached to the wall.

"Enlighten… me…" Prussia ground out, his vision starting to go blurry and black at the edges. He wondered if nations could die by strangulation – it wasn't something he had ever tried on his enemies, having found that it took too long and was more difficult than simply stabbing them, because of course you had to keep them still while they thrashed and a dying man could have a horrible strength, and then –

"Pay attention, Gilbert. No fading out on me, da?" The tension in the scarf lessened just enough that the albino could get a few desperate gasps of air in, and then it returned. Ivan was closer now, and somehow the pipe – that damn, ever present _pipe_ – had found its way into his free hand. Gently, the Russian tapped it against the side of Gilbert's head, receiving a red eyed glare in return.

"You see," Ivan continued once he knew he had the other's attention, a small, sick smile spreading across his face. "Now that you belong to me, I can do whatever I want to you. And I _owe_ you for what you did to my soldiers and my people as _East Germany_. I won't be forgetting that war for a _very_ long time." His voice dropped menacingly on the last few words, and when Gilbert met his eyes again, the purple was dark with intent_._

They held the stare – and the ensuing silence – for a long moment, neither one twitching so much as a facial muscle, before Gilbert broke the tension. His lips curled into another wide, demented grin, teeth stained red from the blood still trickling down from his nose.

"And you know what, you little fucker?" His own voice had dropped alarmingly as well, nearly matching Ivan's for tone. "_I haven't forgotten it either_. I won't forget my people burning around me, you damn _russki_, and I won't forgive it, either. So bring on whatever the fuck you want, Ivan. Show me what your version of hell is like." The smile grew even wider, until it was deformed and nothing resembling sanity was on Gilbert's face. "Because I promise you, whatever pain you cause me, it will be nothing, _nothing_, compared to what you'll feel when I get my hands on you."

**Summer 1965**

_Roderich – _

_ I have no way of knowing if this will get to you or not, but for my sake and yours, I pray that it does. I'm sorry for the lack of communication these past few years – it's been almost three decades since you and I parted, and since then I have either been fighting with my people, or sick due to the retaliation. Ivan's 'justice' is swift and uncompromising, and while I hate him for it, I am glad that he has not chosen to invite me to stay at his house yet._

_ How are you holding out? The news I get from over the Wall is always highly filtered, so I've stopped trusting it. (Unless, of course, Ludwig _is_ still continuing with the whole world domination thing?)_

_ Please take good care of Gilbird. I don't know how he found me, or if Gilbert was the one to send him, but he didn't look very well when he arrived. I have precious little food to give him, so I hope what I have managed to spare holds him through the journey to your house._

_ Say hello to Ludwig for me, would you? And let him know that we're working hard to get the Wall down here in Hungary – and the minute we do, I'll start letting the East German people through as well._

_- Elizveta_

_Elizveta – _

_ I received your letter, and I can't even say how relieved I was. Hearing from you, even just on paper, is more than I could have hoped for. The news filtering over from your side is anything but happy. I know I can't keep you from fighting, but – please, take care of yourself. I don't think I could bear to see another broken friend. _

_ My apologies for the length of time it took to reply to you – I decided to keep Gilbird with me for a few weeks so that he would be able to make the journey back over a few times. I don't know when he'll choose to return to Gilbert, but I hope that you get this before he does._

_ Ludwig has, mercifully, given up on warmongering, and I daresay he's even decided to settle down, though these past years have hardly been good to him. I can see him aging before his eyes – he's younger than you or I, but he moves like he's been around for hundreds of centuries. I think the situation with Gilbert's killing him. Maybe not physically, but I fear a Germany without a mind far more than a fear a Germany with a mind – when he's thinking straight, he won't act on the desire to hunt Ivan down and rip out his esophagus. I've been trying to help him through it best I can – I've known Gilbert for a while, so it isn't much easier for me, but… we spent so much of our time fighting, I guess it's easier for me to distance myself from the whole thing._

_ We've been pouring glasses for the two of you. How I wish you were here, enjoying the relative peace, laughing at me for spending time in bars. It's still hard, I won't go so far as to deny that… but we're going forward. We'll pull through, and keep going. Everything's going to be alright._

_ I think I've lost my muse as well. I haven't been able to compose anything as of late, and everything I _do_ play seems – empty of something. I'm hoping that when you return that I'll be able to do so once more. _

_ Take care of yourself, Elizveta. Fight, but stay safe. I don't want to lose you._

_ All my love,_

_- Roderich _

_Roderich – _

_ What is this sappy, sentimental shit? Why the fuck are you sending it to me? I finally think I'm getting some decent reading material, and what do I get? A fucking love letter to the fucking Frying Pan Queen! I'm sending Gilbird back to you. Try not to get your damn mail mixed up next time, you specky bastard. _

_And you better take damn good care of my brother, you hear me? If I come back and find he's a fucking pansy and has been mooning after me all this time, I'm going to hold your ass responsible, and I'm going to rip a new one into it._

_ Say hi to Liz for me. I hear she's been pissing off the Soviet asshat recently. That's a nice word. Asshat. I'm going to call him that next time he visits. Tell her to keep up the good work!_

_ Also feel free to tell her she's losing. _I've_ given him a broken nose, a broken hand, a broken jaw, a partial concussion, and half a hundred bruises. _

_Tell her to come visit me. I'm lonely._

_ And now I'm running out of fucking paper. Damn Soviet scrooge, hides his writing material so well that even Latvia can't find it. Hope you're having a fucking fantastic time with my brother. Get drunk and do something wild for me._

_- Gilbert_

_Elizveta – _

_ There's a letter attached for you. I just got it myself. It looks like we're worrying over nothing. Gilbert sounds as foul-mouthed as ever, and when he's swearing, everything's good. If you can get over there to see him without taking up permanent residence in Ivan's house, please do so._

_ Ludwig and I have spoken at length, and I think he's worrying himself sick over his brother. He's avoiding the entire story – just missing him wouldn't justify how nervous he is about the whole thing – but I think he deserves to have his secrets. Make sure Gilbert – is still the Gilbert we knew, alright?_

_ But – and I know this sounds callous of me – if there is any chance you won't be able to get out of that house… Elizveta, don't risk yourself. Gilbert can survive on his own, and he wouldn't want you putting yourself in danger for himself._

_ Don't do anything stupid, please._

_- Roderich_

_Roderich – _

_ Got your letter. Sending Gilbird back so he stays in one piece. I think Gilbert wants you to hold on to him for safekeeping. No sense letting our only method of communication fall into the Russian's hands._

_ I'll see what I can do about visiting. Not much chance to do so without Ivan being there – he doesn't attend meetings anymore, I'm sure you've noticed. Also, I'll be out of contact for a while – sorry!_

_- Elizveta _

**Summer 1966**

"Wake up."

The words were accompanied by something hard cracking off of his ribs, and Gilbert groaned, cracking his eyes open. This time it took actual effort – not only from lack of sleep, but because of the fresh bruises around them. Getting punched by the six foot Russian – especially in the face – was not a pleasant experience. One of his arms was hanging awkwardly in its chain, the shoulder looking oddly detached. He had been moved, a few days earlier, to a new position – now his arms were suspended over his head, their separate chains attached to new rungs in the ceiling, toes just barely able to brush the floor. It was infinitely more painful – not to mention inconvenient, as it took away his ability to curl away from blows.

"What the fuck do you want?" Gilbert promptly closed his eyes upon meeting Ivan's gaze, returning to hanging limply. He had long since given up on trying to remain standing – his arms and back weren't worth the pain it caused to be on his feet almost all the time.

"Nothing. I enjoy doing this to you, da. Depriving you of the things you need, watching you get weaker and weaker. Did you know your people have settled down?" The Russian laughed softly. "You're the only one still fighting, GDR. The only one still resisting the benefits of my rule."

"Yeah, and look where that got you. Or are you really so blind that you don't realize that you're starving under that coat of yours? I recognize the signs. And my people haven't _settled down_, they're too worn out, too _downtrodden_ to keep going." His eyes flashed, even as he had to struggle for breath after such a long string of words. "But I'll keep going. I refuse to give in to you. _I'll fight until the breath leaves my body._"

Ivan smiled. "That could be arranged. I don't really need you, you see. You're just an interesting toy. A piece of… culture, da? A relic. Something one would keep in a museum." He started to pace around the albino. "Old and past your time. You really should just give in, you know. You've had your little victories, oh yes… but they've turned out to be insubstantial in the long run, haven't they? I'm still standing. Your threat has come to nothing. Just as your empire has come to nothing."

"My empire is still around. It's changed form, but it's _still here_. My people might be few, but they believe. They believe in _Prussia_. What do your people believe in, Ivan?" Gilbert's grin was as cruel as the Russian's usually was. "Death that comes knocking in the middle of the night? A terror that only reminds them of a war they're trying to forget? Living in constant fear of a war with America – a war that you're struggling with and one that _you will lose_ if Alfred decides to take it that one step further?" Gilbert laughed, echoing Ivan's soft tone. "Your people _hate you_, Ivan. They've _always_ hated you. You're just too wrapped up and lost in that twisted little mind of yours to see what –"

His head cracked back as Ivan's hand connected with his cheek. The Russian's lips were thin, his face white. Gilbert was pleased to say he had never seen the other quite so furious.

"Take that back, GDR." Russia's voice was flat and low, nearly inaudible. "You know _nothing_ about my people."

"Oh, touched a nerve, have I?" Gilbert's laugh was louder now, derisive. "Don't try to deny it. _You_ don't even like your people! Or had you forgotten Bloody Sunday? I haven't. I marked that date on the fucking calendar, back when I had one. The day the world _really_ saw you for what you were. I've known since Ivan the Terrible, but _oh no_. I couldn't be _right_. You hid behind your little veneer of sanity, but I saw _right through you_. And I still can – the only difference is, _so can everyone else._"

"Shut up!" Ivan's voice rose slightly, sounding a touch more childish than it had in a long while. "_Shut up!_"

"Oh, I have enough on you to go for _weeks_." Gilbert's dark smile stretched further. "How about Stalin? Do I even need to go into what _he_ did? Collective farming. I wonder, did you even feel them dying? _I_ did, and I'm not even part of your little Republic. I'll bet you _laughed_. I'll bet that you _enjoyed_ feeling it, their last gasps as they lay dying in the streets."

Ivan's face was drained of all colour now, and if Gilbert had been anyone else – had Gilbert cared enough to look – he might have seen the faint shaking in the other's shoulders. "Stop it." His voice was shaking too, just slightly. "Stop it right now."

"So, my threats have come to nothing, has they" Gilbert laughed again, the sound echoing off of the walls of the small room, amplifying. "I don't need to _touch_ you to hurt you. I've learned enough from _you_. All I need are my words, you fucking Russian bastard. My words, and the centuries I've had to suffer through just _knowing_ you existed. That's all the weapons I need, _Ivan Braginski_, to make your life a _living hell_. And you know what the worst thing is?" He had to crane his head around his shoulder to keep Ivan in his sightline, as the other was still pacing, albeit slower now. "I'm going to enjoy every _moment_."

Ivan's jaw worked, but for once it seemed as though he could come up with nothing to say. Not meeting the other's gaze, he stalked past Gilbert's thin form, headed towards the door – _escape_.

"Going so soon, Ivan? I thought – _oof_!" Gilbert's words were cut off as the end of Russia's pipe introduced itself violently to his midsection, driving all the air from his lungs.

Ivan's posture was brittle as he stood at the slightly open door. "Your words might be your weapons, GDR," he said flatly, "But I'll ask you to remember who _gave _you those weapons. Do you even know how to speak German anymore, you poor, pathetic excuse for a nation? Do you even remember your _native language_?"

And with that, Ivan turned, the door slamming shut on his heels. Gilbert struggled for air for a moment longer, licking his lips repeatedly. His mind was working faster than his body seemed to be able to readjust itself, and he could feel a bubble of panic rising in his chest.

_He couldn't remember_. Barely a word. Not enough to string a sentence together. Had he been speaking German with Lithuania the last time he had come down, however long ago that had been? Had his mind simply been translating it? Or had he been speaking in Russian the whole time, the language that Ivan had forced on him when he had first arrived here?

"_YOU GET BACK HERE!" _His voice rang, ragged and desperate, up the landing beyond the door to where Ivan was standing. "_GET BACK HERE AND FACE ME, IVAN!_"

The Russian wore a thin smile as he continued up the stairs, the screaming fading away behind him.

_And so the cracks begin to show_.

**Winter 1969**

_ "So, he will be gone, then?" _

_ "Yes, he said he'd be away for a few days at least."_

_ "Well, that's good news."_

_ "You are going to be coming, right?"_

_ "I don't think I'll stick around for very long, but yes, I should be."_

_ "Good. I really think – he needs it. He's had so little contact outside of me, and I think he's starting to… regress."_

_ "What's that supposed to mean?"_

_ "Look, it's hard to explain. I'll – you'll see when you get here. You've known him longer than me, I'm sure you'll understand. Just – come soon, please."_

* * *

Lithuania sighed, nearly in relief, as he heard a soft knock on the door. That furtive conversation over the phone had been preying on his mind for two weeks – he hadn't heard anything further, and had been filled with horrible images of Russia having tapped the phone lines and gone to do something about the plan before it could become anything more than tentative.

"Toris, are you actually going to _answer_ the door, or are you just going to stand there in the hallway looking like you just dodged a bullet?" Estonia was poking his head out of the sitting room down the hall, a wry look on his face. "I thought you were in love with Natalia, but by the way _you're_ carrying on…" The second, slightly louder knock, seemed to emphasis the other nation's words.

Toris flushed, and practically threw himself at the door, yanking it open just seconds before the girl on the other side had raised her hand to knock again.

"Hi. Sorry… was a bit busy…" the Baltic nation felt his cheeks grow even redder as she simply stared at him, one eyebrow raised. There was something hard in her eyes that he didn't remember seeing the last time they had been in the same room.

"You look different," she said eventually, cracking a small smile. "Thinner than I remember."

Toris couldn't help but smile back. "I could say the same to you, Hungary."

She waved a dismissive hand. "It's just Elizveta, please. Country names are too formal among friends, yes? Now, are you going to let me in, Toris? It's kind of _really_ cold out here, and I'm frozen in places I never knew could be frozen."

"Oh, yes! Sorry about that." He moved aside hastily. "Thank you so much for coming. I was beginning to think –"

She made no move to take off her coat once the door was closed behind her. "To be honest, I wasn't going to come. My people need me back home right now, and I can't afford to be away for long. I'm coming to check up on him, and that's all."

Toris's smile faltered a bit. He had been hoping for more than that, seeing as Ivan was out of the house for a while. "Well…"

"Besides, from what I've heard, he's doing pretty alright. Ivan certainly hasn't come out of this whole thing unscathed, has he?" For a moment there was something else besides that hardness in her eyes.

The smile fell a little further. "No. He's been giving Ivan a hell of a time. I don't think he quite knows how to deal with it. After a while we…" he gestured vaguely with his hands.

"Physical fighting isn't for everyone, Toris." Elizveta placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know you aren't passive. You just aren't as thickheaded as Gilbert and I. It'll probably do you well, in the long run." She winked at him. "Less concussions, at any rate. Now. I want to see him."

_You're certainly more abrupt than I remember_, he couldn't help but think to himself as he gestured her down the hallway. _I just hope you'll have some patience with him. He isn't the same Gilbert that you remember_. In what seemed a remarkably long time, they reached the top of the staircase leading down to the basement level.

"You aren't serious?" Elizveta stared down the cement stairs, eyes taking in the ice that had formed over some of them. "Tell me he isn't actually down – there."

Lithuania sighed, and looked at the other nation. "I won't lie to you. He's been kept down there almost since he arrived. He was allowed more freedom in the beginning, but then –"

"Then he started being Gilbert." There was almost exasperation in her voice, but Toris could see the worry in her eyes. "I knew he wouldn't listen, no matter how many of us told him to keep out of trouble."

The smile reappeared on Toris's face briefly. "Yes, he's certainly been keeping everyone on their toes. Somehow he still manages to create chaos, even down there." It was a short lived smile.

"Are you going to be coming down with me, then?" It was, Elizveta decided, an awkward conversation to be having. Certainly she had never thought that she would ever _be_ having one like this.

"No." He looked pained for a moment. "I won't be." Toris reached into his pocket, and after a moment came out with a key. "Here. It's my copy of it, so – I'll need it back when you leave. Just give me a heads up… when you're finished."

Hungary reached out and took it from the other nation. "Thank you, Toris," she said quietly, eyes focused on the little silver object. Such an insignificant little thing to contain one of the most stubborn, violent forces the Earth had ever seen. "I shouldn't – be long." It would be too painful. She could already feel the unspoken years, the silence of things left unsaid, reaching up from the yawning basement.

"It's the first one when you reach the bottom. The – the key won't work on any of the other rooms." The last thing, Toris thought – unconsciously echoing Hungary's – that he wanted was to have someone digging around in the centuries of Ivan's history. "Mind your step on the way down… it's icy." _And I think, Elizveta… you'll be longer than you think_.

She watched Lithuania turn; trying to hide the look in his eyes that seemed to tell her she had no idea what she was getting herself into. Then she, too, turned, starting down the stairs. Though there were only a handful of them, they seemed to take ages to traverse. There was, on one of them, a strange dark patch, as though water had been spilled. Elizveta winced, wondering if it was something more than just water. By the time she had reached the door, the first of many doors in an unlit, chilly hallway, she could see her breath, and feel her heart beating in her ears.

_Oh, come on, Elizveta. You're a nation. You're not to be reduced to this by a door. You've probably seen worse. Remember that one soldier? Nothing that's been done to Gilbert can be worse than what'd been done to _him_, right?_

Taking a deep breath, Hungary reached out, grasping the chilly door handle. She hesitated a moment longer, before inserting the key into the lock and turning.

* * *

"Would you stop _staring_ at me already?" Gilbert tried to glare, but it was difficult to summon up enough anger to do so. "It's getting really creepy."

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you didn't look like that. You look like someone shoved your face through a grater."

Gilbert snorted, trying to blow the hair out of his face. "Yeah, well, you look like you've been through the grinder yourself. The years have _not_ been kind to you. I only pray my face n ever ends up looking like _that_."

"You can pray all you want, but God stopped listening to you a while ago, I'm afraid."

"Oh, shut up, would you? What the hell do you know?" Gilbert tilted his head back slightly, still trying to get the long white strands off of his nose – they were ticking him. "…Gilbert?"

There was someone else in the room with him. Gilbert blinked, and tilted his head back down, trying to ignore the way it ached when he moved.

"Yeah?" he said, trying to remember who else was talking to him.

"Gilbert, it's me. Elizveta. I came to see you."

"What is this? You've capable of making lady friends? And here I always thought you were –" There was a chuckle, and Gilbert twitched, glaring at the other.

"I thought I told you to can it, you ginger bastard. No one wants your input."

The other man ran a hand through his red hair, and then crossed his arms, grinning in that annoying way of his. Gilbert simply smirked, before flicking his eyes back to the person standing in the doorway.

"Elizveta?" He shook his head slightly, trying to clear his head. He only succeeded in making it pound more.

The figure moved closer to him, and Gilbert blinked, trying to shake off the film that was clinging to his mind like a spider web. It took his eyes a moment to focus, but when they did, the features they saw were almost painfully familiar.

"Liz?" He winced as he heard his voice crack on the end of her name.

Those features smiled, though a little sadly. "Yeah, it's me, Gilbert. I took a break from fighting. I came to see you."

"How'd you manage to get past the Russian?" Gilbert's eyebrows scrunched together, though even that movement caused the pain in his head to worsen.

She knelt down to his level. "He's gone away for a few days. There's been unrest in Poland."

"Didn't think Feliks had it in him, that cross-dressing weirdo. But I guess he did train with me, so that would make sense…" Gilbert rubbed his head on his arm, trying to scratch an itch.

Her eyes clouded. "Gilbert…" A hand reached out and touched his hair, tugging on the long strands. "You look terrible with long hair, you know that?" There were tears in her smile, the laugh slightly choked. "Really, really terrible."

"I told you that years ago, when you were running around trying to copy _my_ hair. Really, Gilbert, you should just give up on the whole idea. You look like a drowned cat."

Gilbert made a face, turning his head to look pointedly at the other. "For god's sake, Mark, I get my first visitor that isn't Toris or Ivan for the first time _ever_, and you can't keep your nose out of it!"

"You shouldn't tease your betters, Gilbert. It's a sin." That annoying grin was still there.

"God doesn't listen to me, remember? That means I can bully you shamelessly, asshole, like you did to me when I was five. I haven't forgotten the well incident, you know."

"G – Gilbert?" There was a warm hand on his forehead, brushing his bangs out of his face. "Are you alright?"

Gilbert jerked away from the touch as best he could. His head protested with another violent throb, but he pushed it away, blinking to clear his eyes of the little black spots. They focused on familiar features, and he relaxed slightly, licking his lips.

"Elizveta." Her name sounded strange on his tongue. "When did you get here?" Gilbert paused, his eyebrows scrunching down, eliciting another throb from his head. "Better question – _how_ did you get here? How'd you get past the Russian?"

"Oh, Gilbert." There were tears running down her face now. She placed a hand on his forehead, and her touch was strangely hot. Gilbert's mouth pulled down into a frown, but he didn't try to pull away.

"Liz, you haven't done that since I was seven. What's gotten into you? Did the Ottoman Empire kick the crap out of you again? I told you not to go picking fights with him. It's easier to pick fights with that Austrian jerk – besides; he's more fun to beat up." Gilbert shook his head slightly. This didn't seem right. He grasped for his memories, but every time he managed to dredge a few up, it was like someone had attacked them with a pair of scissors.

"This is what I left you for? I thought you were going to be capable of carrying on without me around." The ginger haired man leaned against the wall, eyebrows drawn forward as he twirled a strand of hair around one finger. "This is all because of that serious, snotty little blond brat that was always running around the house, isn't it? I told you not to humor that little shit – it would only cause you trouble. And look where it's gotten you."

"Hey, don't you go bringing West into this!" He showed signs of life for a moment, eyes flashing with a hint of his old fire. "of this is his fault, and don't you go blaming him. You weren't even around, so don't presume to judge my actions!"

"Gilbert!"

Elizveta's voice and her hands clamping down on his shoulders made Gilbert jump slightly, and he turned around, eyes unreadable, to glare at her.

"_What_?" The words were a deep snarl, and for a moment they held their stare, the tension palpable. Then Gilbert seemed to notice the tears running down Hungary's face, the slightly horrified look that was lurking in her eyes, and his eyebrows drew together again. "Elizveta…?" He wished he could reach out to touch her. "Elizveta, are you alright? Why're you crying?"

All she did was stare back at him soundlessly, mouth working as if she was struggling to say something, but couldn't quite find the right words.

Gilbert eyed her nervously. His own suffering, he could deal with. That was easy. He, on the other hand, wasn't sure how to comfort other people. "Come on, Liz," he said quietly, wincing as his voice rasped over the words like sandpaper, "Talk to me. What's going on? Something in your country?"

"Gilbert…" Hungary said eventually, her own voice sounding strained. She licked her lips. "Who were you talking to?"

He blinked at her. "Mark, of course." That particularity annoying man was still standing off to the side, muttering profanities about Ludwig. Despite the fact that the words grated on his nerves, Gilbert did his best to ignore him for now.

She grew paler, if it were possible. "… Brandenburg? Gilbert… Gilbert, you know he's been gone… for a very long time… don't you?"

The albino snickered. "Here that, Mark? She doesn't know you exist. Looks like your love-life is going to go to shit." He turned his head to grin at the other man in the room. His eyes widened slightly when there was no one standing there. Gilbert bit his lip slightly, staring at the spot the other nation had been standing in. "But – he –" His eyebrows furrowed together. "He was standing right there…" He gestured vaguely with one hand.

Hungary shook her head slightly. "There wasn't ever anyone there, Gil. You're seeing things."

"But I swear – he's been here for –"

"It's 1968. Mark – he left a long time ago. You were a wreck." Hungary's eyes were worried. "I really think you'd remember that. Even Roderich was worried about you."

Gilbert shrugged, or tried to. From his current position, such motion was difficult. "It's… hard for me to remember things… lately." He looked to the side, avoiding her gaze. Admitting weakness was hard enough, but to do so in front of Elizveta, who had been in competition with him for as long as he _could_ remember…

She put her hands on his shoulders, and he suppressed a slight wince. "Gilbert." He looked up slowly. "I'm not judging you. I'm just glad that I got to see you. Just do your best. We're going to get you out of here as soon as we can."

"People've been telling me that for years." His smile was a little bit tired. "I've kind of stopped expecting anything." Besides, he wasn't done here yet, and he would be damned if he left before he didn't pay Ivan back for every single bruise. For a moment his expression twisted, before he forced it back to blankness.

Elizveta offered a half smile in response. "Just – don't go talking to Brandenburg again, alright? I know you and he were close, but – it's better to leave him where he is."

Gilbert frowned. "Why're you bringing him up?" There was almost accusation in his tone as his mood switched once again.

It was Hungary's turn to look confused. "But – you were just talking to him," she said, eyebrows slightly raised. "Just before. You were acting like he was in the room and still –"

"Look, I appreciate you coming to see me, Elizveta, but can you just – not? It was hard enough letting him go the first time, without you trying to dig him up all over again." Gilbert tilted his head to the side. "Alright?"

Elizveta opened and closed her mouth for a few seconds, at a loss for what to say. "Gil, _you_ were the one talking to him. You –" She caught sight of the expression on the albino's face, and suddenly decided the better of arguing. Perhaps _this_ is what Lithuania had meant over the phone? "Never mind. Let's talk about something else."

"About what, exactly?" His snickered. "I'd comment on the weather, but since I'm facing away from the window, I'm a bit indisposed."

"I want to know what you did to get yourself into this position." Elizveta looked him up and down. "I thought we told you to behave. Your brother is going to kill you when you get home."

Gilbert shrugged, though the motion made him wince. "I didn't do anything at all. I just politely told Ivan how I felt about him and his system, and he threw me down here." He tried to adopt an injured look, but he couldn't hold it, his trademark smirk appearing on his face.

Elizveta sighed in exasperation. "Gilbert, your version of polite would make a sailor blush," she said, poking him in the chest, swallowing a comment on his lack of decent clothing.

It looked like he was still wearing the same thing he had been the last time she had seen him. The blue military uniform was hanging off of him in tatters; the jacket was nearly destroyed, and the shirt underneath it was held together only by a few rotting threads. Elizveta tried to avoid looking at the curious dried patches, at the twisted, scarred skin all the way up his left side. She knew what that was from, and knew too that Gilbert wouldn't appreciate her staring. The silence stretched uncomfortably, and finally Gilbert let out a long sigh.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" It had been the same with his meeting with Ludwig – though this time he hadn't planned it, there was still a gnawing sense of guilt. "Things have changed." That was a lie. Things had changed between them a long time ago, before the first war. Back when she and Austria had become more than friends, and their unofficial trio had become unbalanced.

Elizveta tried to smile; the expression had been difficult in the past few years. "Yeah. But that doesn't mean… anything. We're still friends, Gil. We still have a history that could fill a few books together."

She hesitated for a moment, wondering if it weren't too awkward – or too painful – before shoving those, like the other thoughts lurking under her mind – to the side. Biting her lip, she closed the gap between them and wrapped her warms around him. The albino let out a faint noise of surprise, stiffening slightly at the touch. After a moment, he seemed to relax – and though he couldn't hug her back, Elizveta thought that he might have wanted to.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his hair, tightening her grip slightly. "You shouldn't have to go through this."

"Don't apologize," he murmured back into her ear. "Better me than anyone else." _Better me than you_ was what he meant to say. Gilbert bit the inside of his mouth as Elizveta's grip grew painful, and allowed his eyes to shut. Though he had always held that things like this were for weaklings, Gilbert couldn't deny that it was nice to simply be _hugged_, rather than – well, the alternative.

"You should probably be going," he mumbled, once it seemed that the contact was getting too long. Though they were no longer married, in his own head Elizveta would always be Roderich's. Even though he normally enjoyed doing everything he could to piss off the Austrian, some lines weren't crossable. "Ivan has a nasty habit of appearing when you don't want him to."

Hungary pulled away, but she kept her hands on his shoulders. "Gilbert," she said quietly, seriously. "We _are_ working to get you out of here. _All_ of us out of here. The Wall won't last forever, and then we'll have you home." She squeezed lightly, making him wince as her fingers dug into the old scars on his left shoulder.

"I'll be ready," the albino replied, pulling out his smirk again. _I'll be ready to come home when _I_ want to, not before. _West would be around for a while, he had made sure of that. West could wait for _him_ for a change. "… thanks for coming, Liz."

She pulled away. "It's – not a problem, Gil. I guess – I'll be seeing you, then?"

"Yeah. Don't forget to lock the door behind you."

With a last look, Hungary turned and left. She didn't want to say her step was hurried, but it certainly wasn't calm. Whatever she had been expecting, it hadn't been that. And though she didn't think Gilbert had realized she had noticed; she had seen the way his eyes had started to wander over her shoulder, looking at something – or someone – who wasn't really there. As she put the key in the lock, and heard it scrape into place with a dull sense of finality, Elizveta knew that no matter how much she might care for Gilbert as a friend, very little would convince her to return to this sad, basement dungeon.

**Summer 1976**

"So, what're we going to do about this? I mean, it's been long enough, and I'm aching to have a go at that Communist bastard, so why're we waiting around?"

"You idiot, it isn't that easy –"

"'Course it is. I've got enough weapons to kick the ever loving shit out of him –"

"You do realize that _he_ has enough weapons to give it right back? Not to mention that all of _us_ are between the two of you, and none of us have any desire to be blasted off the globe just yet."

"Yeah, but if I can get to him _first _–"

"Which won't ever happen, because all of us know that he's watching you and is _just_ as prepared to do the same."

"Yeah, but all of his are made really badly, I'll bet –"

Germany sank down further into the couch, wishing the squishy leather would just open up and devour him on the spot. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and ground his teeth, trying to stave off t he imminent headache he could feet growing between his eyes.

"You should speak up, you know," a soft voice said beside him, nearly making the German jump out of his skin as he realized there was someone sitting next to him.

"_Gott_, Canada, you've got to stop doing that," he muttered, relaxing again. Now that his brother was no longer in attendance, he had taken it upon himself to be the one to notice Canada – which was a lot harder than he had thought it would be. "And I think I'll just let them continue arguing until they get tired of it. Then maybe they'll see logic."

"I think you're underestimating the lengths that Alfred's willing to go to get back at Ivan," Matthew said, resting his chin in his hands. "They've been egging each other on for the past few decades… and this is just the excuse he needs."

"Well, all power to him then," Ludwig said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. He wanted them all out of his house. He wasn't even sure why they had decided to chose his living room as the place to argue about this.

"You misunderstand me, Ludwig," Matthew said, watching the three other countries bickering. "When I say he is looking for an excuse, I mean that he doesn't particularly care who's in his way, so long as he gets a chance to lash out at Ivan." The Canadian looked sad for a moment. "The fighting was supposed to be over in '45," he whispered, more to himself than Germany. "So why is he still trying to start something?"

Ludwig missed the tail end of the other's comments, but he had heard enough of the beginning to sit up. "He doesn't care if we get Gilbert out of the way first?" His voice was soft and none too friendly.

Canada, not looking at the German, shook his head. "Don't tell him I told you, but no. I think he'd be willing to sacrifice just about everything to have his little revenge." There was raw pain in those words – and for a moment Germany wondered just how Canada had discovered this.

Unfortunately, the argument was reaching a breaking point; England looked just about ready to strangle his ex-colony, and France was egging both of them on. America was so tense Ludwig was surprised he wasn't shaking from the strain. All of this the German registered in a few glances, before pulling himself off of the couch.

"One well placed attack on his capital would ruin half of his economy, and then he wouldn't be able to fight back –"

"You work under the presumption that he'll give a flying _shit_ about the state his people are in after your attack, you ignorant little –"

"Why settle with half of his economy? Why not ruin all of it, _non_? Wouldn't that be a more effective way?"

"Francis, you aren't helping!"

"If I can destroy his major weapon stores –"

"You don't even know where the hell he's keeping them, you stupid Yankee –"

"Shut up, you tea drinking asshole. I know what I'm doing, and I'm going to do it whether or not you like –"

"_EVERYONE SHUT UP!_" Germany's voice resounded through the living room, making the few pictures on the mantle rattle in their frames. The three nations in the center of the room froze instantly. Arthur was in the act of grabbing Alfred by the collar, and Francis's face was fixed in a gleeful expression.

Ludwig exhaled loudly, eyebrows pulled together, his scowl black. "Learn to contain yourselves, you _idiots_. You're in my house – though I'm not sure _why_, exactly – and as such, you'll obey my rules. And the first rule is _NO SHOUTING_!" All of them jumped as Germany all but screamed at them. Lately, he had been on a much shorter fuse than usual, though none of them had believed Austria when he had warned each of them.

"But you just –" Alfred tried to speak up, his voice very small.

"If you continue carrying on like an overgrown baby, America," Ludwig snarled, "I will ensure that you are returned to your country in a cedar _box_."

"I –"

"A cedar box the size of my _palm_, Jones." Ludwig's eyes flashed. He had been _dying_ to lash out at someone these past few years. He had restrained himself around Roderich, because the Austrian really was trying to help – and was friends with his brother. Italy had been avoiding his house since the ill fated meeting all those years ago, and for once, the Germanic nation wasn't missing his presence. Perhaps being stabbed in the back twice had finally snapped what tenacious basis they had had for friendship – he didn't know. Didn't _want_ to know, either.

"Ah. Sorry." Alfred carefully extracted himself from England's crushing grip, and moved to stand awkwardly off to the side.

"And the two of _you_," Germany said, rounding on the two European nations. "I expect that sort of behavior from _Alfred_, but certainly not from _you_."

"Hey –" Alfred's faint protest was cut off by another glare from Germany that should by rights have turned him into a smouldering pile of ash.

"No. We aren't going to decide the fate of my brother in this manner. Because that is, first and foremost, the goal _all_ of you will cherish. If you do _anything_ to annoy the Russian, it is with the aim of getting Gilbert back onto this side of the wall. I don't care what your petty, personal desires are, but from this point on that is what your resources will be _focused_ on. All of you owe me that much."

"I don't think we owe you anything, _Allemagne_, seeing as you're the reason –"

"I could have destroyed you, Francis," Germany breathed, and his menacing tone brought back memories of a different Ludwig. One who was even more uncompromising than he normally was; one who had the cruelty of the Third Reich, backed by twenty years of resentment. "Remember that. I could have _torn you to shreds_, and I let you live. I could have _annexed_ and killed you. I could have sent you to _Auschwitz_ like I had been ordered to, and I _let you scamper off to England_."

Francis had gone rather pale. "Ludwig, I think you're –"

"I'm tired of listening to what people _think_. I want to see some actual honest to god _results_. My country has rebuilt itself, but I still lack the force to destroy that wall. Combined, we could do it."

"This is exactly what I've been trying to say!" Alfred started forward, his face eager. "I've been stockpiling –"

"_Without_ putting Gilbert's life in danger, America. Do what you like to Russia, but if you harm so much as one hair on his head –" Ludwig rounded on the younger Western nation, whose enthusiasm instantly deflated under the German's withering stare. "I'm prepared to lead an attack –"

"Hold on just a moment." England spoke up, expression faintly alarmed. "We can't just go starting a war, Ludwig." Germany's face said otherwise. "Look, hear me out. It's been a few years, but Europe hasn't recovered from the last one yet. Hell, Ludwig, do you think we've even recovered from the _first_ one? It's too soon to start another battle, one that we all know could mean the deaths of even more people."

"You promised me," Germany said quietly. "You promised, England, along with France and everyone else. I would have my brother back. I don't see him here, do you? That means he's still over with Ivan."

Arthur's eyes were pained. "Yes, and I know that it's a horrible burden to bear, but –Ludwig, see reason. This is precisely why Francis and I came over." He shot an accusing look at Alfred. "Between the two of you, we would be facing a nuclear holocaust."

Germany flinched, the last word bringing up too many memories for him to count. "I can't just sit here and do nothing, Arthur." The strange fire was seemingly dying, and Ludwig sounded more upset than he did murderous.

"We send as much aid as we can over that Wall." This time it was Matthew who spoke up, his voice surprisingly loud in the silence. "My government is working on it as we speak – that's why _I_ came over here." His smile was slightly forced. "It isn't much, Ludwig, I know – but if we can keep his _people_ strong, that will bolster your brother, will it not?" A small hand placed itself on Germany's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You and he just need to hold on a little bit longer."

"_Oui_, it's only a matter of time – I have already heard rumors of uprisings in Hungary these past few years. The USSR is starting to crack, Ludwig. We just need to wait until those cracks are large enough for us to exploit – _without_ causing another world war." Francis crossed his arms. "And Gilbert – Gilbert can handle himself. He's strong, stronger than I think you realize. He'll pull through, and be rummaging through your alcohol stores before you know it, so I suggest you start stocking up." The joke fell slightly flat.

Germany would never tell anyone that he had, since the day Gilbert disappeared into the snow, been purchasing far too much beer, all in the hopes that the albino would soon be drinking it again. The last of the energy that had possessed him seemed to evaporate, and the German nation moved to sink back into his couch, putting his head in his hands.

"Very well," he said, so quietly that it almost went unheard. "No war."

"_Bon_." Francis seemed, for once, to be able to sense the mood. "Come, America. We should be going. _Tu aussi, _Mathieu."

"Francis, I don't want to –"

"Come on, Alfred, let's just go with him." Canada pushed firmly on his older brother's back, all but shoving him out of the door with a surprising show of force. "We've invaded Germany's house enough today. Let's give him some peace and quiet."

"But Iggy's staying, so why can't –"

"Arthur is staying because for some reason that I can't _possibly_ fathom, Ludwig prefers his presence to yours. Now come _on_, America. Don't make me ask you again."

"Like you could do anything to me, Francis –"

The argument faded down the hall, until the front door shut behind the trio. The silence in the living room was almost palpable, as England stared down at Ludwig. The German man had never looked so – lost before.

"For what it's worth, Ludwig," he said softly, knowing that it wasn't worth much at all, "I'm very sorry. For all of this. It wasn't supposed to last this long."

"You couldn't have foreseen the Wall," Ludwig muttered into his hands, not looking at the Englishman. _But you could have left him with me after the war. Did Versailles teach you nothing, Arthur? _Though he didn't say the words, both of them were acutely aware of what was going unsaid.

"Well – I should be going."

_Yes, you should. _

"I need to make sure that Alfred isn't trying to beat Francis, and that they actually _remembered_ to keep Matthew with them."

_England, just get out of my house._

"Is there – anything that I can get for you before I go?"

_I've already asked, and you won't provide._

"Alright, then." Arthur turned on his heels. "Have a – good day, Ludwig."

At this, Germany finally looked up. "You have four years, England."

Arthur paused, blinking. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. Four years, and then I'm going to find him. And I don't care who gets in my way. By 1980, if the 'cracks' aren't big enough, I'm going to _make_ them bigger."

**Winter 1979**

There was something different about today. Ivan was almost instantly aware of it, as he carried Gilbert's breakfast down the icy steps with him. Along with the tray of food, he was carrying with him a new red scarf for the albino, and a new uniform as well. It wouldn't do for his GDR to go around without proper attire, after all. It was much the same as his old one – still in his favourite Prussian blue with a black shirt underneath, but Ivan had ordered the hammer-and-sickle to be embroidered over the left breast pocket in silver.

_Merry Christmas, little GDR_, he thought to himself, fumbling for his key. He tried to ignore the niggling sensation that something _wasn't right_. Even though he didn't celebrate the holiday himself, he figured such a gift wouldn't go unappreciated. Besides, Gilbert had been down here for so long, he was starting to wish the other was around the house more. Perhaps some sort of arrangement could be reached.

The cement room was darker than usual when he stepped inside. His eyes instantly found the answer – someone had put something over the one small window, and only tiny cracks of light were getting in through it. The light itself had a faintly red tinge to it, and he realized a moment later that it must be a piece of the old red scarf.

"GDR, do you mind explaining just what you've done to the window, da? You're lucky that I brought you another scarf for –"

Ivan's mind caught up with itself, and his words trailed off. Just _how_ had the German man had managed to get a piece of fabric on the window while chained to the center of the room? This thought hit him at the same moment the door he had just opened slammed shut. The Russian turned, smile already in place, just in time to catch something heavy and metal full in the face.

Stars exploded across his vision, and he staggered back. The tray flew out of his hands, spilling porridge, coffee, and a variety of other food across the floor. The uniform and scarf followed shortly, dropping into crumpled fabric heaps. Something metallic fell as well, clattering loudly with the tray. His back came up against the far side of the wall, and he spat out blood. Ivan struggled to clear his vision and think past the sudden splitting pain in his skull.

"Did you really think that I wouldn't find a way out?" The ragged voice came from somewhere by the door, and Ivan's eyes strained to focus in the dark. There was a raucous laugh that sounded anything but human. "You left me alone down here too long, _little_ _Russia. _Twenty years is a long time… even you can't have honestly expected chains to hold me that long."

"They held… for twenty years, Gilbert," the Russian growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He ran a tongue over his teeth – all of them seemed to be in place, though he was sure that a second blow would knock them out. "I think you're… still too weak." Ivan blinked furiously, trying to adjust his vision.

Raucous laughter echoed from near the door, and there was a faint sound of metal on metal that instantly put Ivan on guard. "Too _weak_, little Russia?" That voice didn't sound anything like the Gilbert the Russian had become used to. "You think I'm still too _weak? _We'll see what you say once I'm done here, _da_?"

Ivan was too busy trying to stealthily put himself in a better position to bother commenting on the fact that the other man was speaking in Russian of his own volition. He pulled himself into a half crouch, eyes flicking up to the ceiling for a moment. His foot brushed off something hard, but he didn't risk looking down to see what it was. In the limited light, he could see two holes in the ceiling – so _that_ was what Gilbert was using. He hadn't thought that the German had been able to get the manacles off – seeing as they had been welded to fit his wrists – but pulling them out of the _ceiling - _

Another faint clinking sound reminded him exactly of the position that he was in, and Ivan instinctively ducked an instant before something cracked off of the stone where his head had been. Enough force had been put behind the blow to chip the cement. The Russian crouched, and shuffled off to the side, eyes narrow. The throbbing in his temple was getting worse, and he could feel blood dripping from the injury on his face, but right now all he was concerned with was getting himself into a position where he could use his size. That would also have the added benefit of rendering the chains the GDR was using useless.

"Did you really think you'd get away with this? Thirty nine years, I've had to deal with you. Thirty nine _fucking_ years, and I'm finally going to get to repay you for every _scratch_ you inflicted on me and my people." That same laugh – the one that even Russia could tell was nothing approaching sane – echoed through the small room. "And guess what… no one cares if you're down here. They won't come _looking_. Not now, not ever. _Da_, it's you and me, Ivan, for as long as I fucking_ please_."

His eyes had finally righted themselves, and now he could make out Gilbert's shape, slightly hunched over and standing by the door; conveniently, the only exit. Faint silver glinted from the makeshift weapons in his hands – and true to his suspicions, the German hadn't managed to get the manacles off. He could see the end of one of the chains, glinting wetly – but the other one snaked off into the darkness.

Again, that warning clinking as Gilbert's outline drew its arm back and lashed out. The second chain rippled and seemed to come alive – and Ivan flinched back before he realized that it wasn't coming _for_ him. He looked down, realization on his face, the moment something cold constricted tightly around his leg. He had a few moments to contemplate the consequences before Gilbert _yanked_ with a surprising show of strength. Already off balance, Ivan found his feet pulled from under him.

He felt the air forced out of his lungs as his back hit the floor. It was soldier's instincts that saved him then – not even stopping to think, the Russian rolled as far to the side as he could. The movement was apparently unexpected, and not a moment too soon – the minute he was gone, the second chain smashed into the ground where his chest had been.

"This isn't how you treat the person who's offered you a home, Gilbert," he said, coming up in another crouch – closer to the albino now. Close enough to see the mad look on his face. The chain still noosed tightly around his leg was something of a problem, and a tiny sliver of something he hadn't felt in a long time dug into his heart.

"Don't glorify this shithole as a home, Russia, don't you even try!" The other yanked on the chain around Ivan's leg again, but this time he wasn't taken by surprise, and his own weight kept him on his feet.

Ivan laughed, managing to keep his voice level by sheer effort. Gilbert was still blocking the door, and with that other chain, he still had the advantage. "You earned your place down here, Gilbert," he said, and though the other probably couldn't see it, made sure to sneer. "Don't you go forgetting that." He began to carefully shift his weight, aware of the second disadvantage the chain around his leg put him at – with the slack left in it, the links would make noise if he moved too swiftly.

"I _earned _this?" Gilbert's voice was almost a shriek, so furious was the German. In the darkness, the Russian could have sworn he saw a faint red light to the other's eyes – the same sort of glow his own took on when he was angry. "How could anyone _earn_ this? You've humiliated me beyond human belief, you –"

"Well, then," Ivan murmured, eyes almost slits, abandoning any pretense of being the bewildered captor as he wiped blood out of his eye. "It's a good thing we're not human, isn't it, _GDR_?"

In that moment, the larger man launched his weight at the other. They were not so far apart that the move was impossible – with the power behind his legs, it was only too simple for Ivan. His momentum should have slammed both him and the smaller albino into the door – hopefully knocking out or stunning Gilbert long enough for something to be done. And Ivan had fully expected to do so, the minute he felt his shoulder connect with the other's bony ribcage. Indeed, he heard an audible crunch as he did so – but what he wasn't expecting was that the other was braced well enough to avoid losing his balance.

He also wasn't expecting pain to rip up his side the moment he got close to the German. Taken by surprise, Ivan fell back slightly, hand going to his side automatically. His fingers came away from his coat damp.

"_Oh_," Gilbert whispered; he close enough for Ivan to see that there really _was_ a strange sort of light to his eyes. "It's a _very_ good thing we're not human, isn't it?" This time he made a sound that was closer to a giggle than anything.

Ivan's eyes found what had stabbed him – braced against the door behind him by its curved head was the very same pipe that the Russian had gotten from Gilbert's older brother all those years ago.

"Oh, look what you've done." The albino giggled again. His eyes were on the hand holding the metal pipe. Against his better judgment, Ivan found his own eyes wandering there, and he realized that the crack hadn't been from the other's ribs, but his wrist. The manacle disguised it well, but now that he was looking he could see the hand looked strange.

"See what I mean?" Gilbert moved forward slightly, and though he wasn't sure why he was doing it, Ivan took a step back to maintain the distance between them. The pain in his side was dulling slightly, but the wet spot on his coat was growing larger. "You just won't _stop_. It's _reasonable_ of me to fight back, isn't it? I _should_. Anyone could see that it's the only option I have left. And if I'm getting revenge while I'm getting even… that's just coincidence." A sickening smile spread across his face.

"You can hardly blame me for that," Ivan said carefully, keeping his eyes trained on the other. "Seeing as you're the one who went and impaled me with it."

"But that's just it, _da_? You're the one who attacked me first. I can claim all of this in self defense." Gilbert took another step forward, tilting his head. "They told me to hang on for a few more years. But you know what? _It's been long enough._"

Ivan was still trying to figure out who exactly had told him such a thing when Gilbert decided to launch his slighter frame at the Russian. The larger of the two twisted, ready to avoid what was a very stupid move, when he remembered the chain still wrapped around his leg – and the other one Gilbert still had control over.

Unfortunately, this realization came a little too late for Ivan to act upon it. He moved quickly enough to avoid the German's wild lunge, but not enough to get his balance back before the chain around his leg tightened again. Ivan managed a surprised yelp before Gilbert's momentum sent them both crashing to the ground. The free chain whipped out just over the Russian's head, cracking off of the wall and raining down bits of concrete. The Russian lay there for a long moment, trying to get his breath back.

There was one thing that Ivan was aware of right now, and that was the pressing need to _get out_ of here, out of this room that was too small for him to move in properly, and too dark for him to be able to avoid everything. He knew the look on Gilbert's face very well – had been expecting to see it for some time now. There was no reason in those eyes; no stopping point. Sooner or later the other was going to land a blow that would make it –

Pain shot up his arm a moment later, and the Russian let out an involuntary bark of pain. The fall had winded him – apparently not the case for Gilbert. The other was standing over him now, that crazed expression on his face, leaning heavily on the pipe that he had just smashed into Ivan's hand. Though there hadn't been enough force – this time – to puncture through the skin, the pain that darted up his arm when he tried to twitch his fingers confirmed that it was most definitely broken.

"Don't even think about getting out of here before I'm done with you," the German breathed. "And don't think of yelling for help, either. No one's going to come to _your_ rescue." Grinning, he leaned a bit harder on the pipe, twisting it. Ivan felt the broken bones in his hand grinding, but bit back another yelp. He wouldn't give Gilbert the satisfaction. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they would just _leave_ you down here with me."

"You're still _nothing_ without me, GDR," Ivan ground out. He forced the muscles in his hand to contract; though the shattered bones seemed to scream in protest, he managed to close his fingers around the pipe. "I _made_ you. I kept you _alive_. If you want to go home, you're going to _die_." Drawing on the strength of a nation who had suffered torment after torment, Ivan gripped the pipe harder, trying to will his arm to contract. "And you're going to _pay_ for this."

"I don't _think_ so," the German spat back, tightening his own grip. "Because you're forgetting one key point – I don't have anything to _lose_." Out of nowhere, a foot connected with the side of Ivan's head. The Russian let go of the pipe with a grunt, his concentration broken.

"Yes, except what dear little Germany's going to think when he sees his big brother all violent and bloody, isn't that right? You _never_ let him see what you're actually like." Ivan laughed, locking eyes with the other. "Even back when he was a child, isn't that right?" Keep him talking. Isn't that what the other nations had done with _him_ back when his tsar had been going mad, when that last tsar and his family had been murdered and everything had gotten all strange and fragmented in his mind? Toris had talked to him, and it had made things better, patched over some of the cracks.

This time the pipe connected with his other hand. Gilbert looked down at him, and in that gaze there was nothing that resembled the nation that he had become over the years. Gone was the reason gained with the years; and with a sinking sensation, Ivan realized exactly what he was dealing with right now – with two broken hands and a compromised leg.

"… Prussian Empire?" The word escaped his lips before he could even think to keep it in. His violet eyes widened, and he saw something dark and primal cross the other's face.

"Finally figured it out, _da_?" The other giggled again. "Why should I bother to keep up pretence of civility around you anyway?" Those red eyes narrowed. "I tried so _hard_ to pretend, to keep up this little human sham that seems to be the fashion these days." An impossibly wide grin that was more a baring of teeth than anything. His canines seemed sharper than Ivan remembered. "I've tired of this game, though. I'm surprised you're managing so well, Ivan. You've come a long way since that snotty face you had under the Mongols."

Ivan shifted, but the end of the pipe jabbed uncomfortably into his sternum. He was severely regretting bringing that down now. "I have," he said, fighting down a wince as the other nation stepped on his hand. "It's nice to see that you're regressing, though. Going back to the savage times of our past, are you?"

Gilbert's red eyes were cold; he didn't rise to the bait. "What you've done is unforgivable, Russia. My people _burned_ because of you. My children screamed in the streets, and for that, you are going to _pay_."

Ivan, who had been carefully moving the chain pooled on the ground around the other's foot, ignoring the pain in his hands the best he could, looked up at that. Gilbert was staring down at him with a smile that seemed strangely familiar – and the reason hit him a moment later. It was the same look he had given to his own subordinates many, many times. It was a look that said he knew _exactly_ what the Russian had been trying to do; it was most certainly not promising.

And suddenly he realized exactly what that sliver in his heart was. The feeling was growing larger, consuming, as the Prussian Empire leaned down, white hair tinged red in the filtered light, pressing harder and harder on the pipe as he did so, paying no heed to his own broken wrist.

"Merry Christmas, Ivan Braginski," the other nation murmured, throwing his entire weight onto the pipe.

In the surreal silence of the little room, the sound of breaking bone was loud.

* * *

_What am I doing? _

The thought came to him from a distance, filtered in bits and pieces through the hazy red fog that had fallen over his mind. The nation underneath him had long since ceased being able to make sounds, and much of the fun had gone out of what he had been doing. There was only so much available to him anyway – though he had discovered a strange limitlessness to the things one could do with a pipe and chains if one put their mind to it.

_Why am I still here? Shouldn't I be running?_

It wasn't that he minded the red mist that stole his senses, took away the pain, and replaced it with bloodlust and wild laughter. It was just that sometimes he had trouble remembering things that he had done if he let it last for too long – and this was something he wanted to remember for a very long time. He licked his lips and tasted something coppery – blood. For once, he knew that it wasn't his own. He had tasted that enough in the past to know.

Still, despite the fact that he didn't regret what he had done – he didn't believe in such things – he couldn't help but feel a sliver of pity for the nation below him. Twenty years of hatred – well, more than that, if he were to be honest – given back in such a short time.

_He deserved it_.

And that was just it. He shoved the pity away – Russia wasn't worth the wasted emotion. He didn't feel remorse either, mostly because he knew that the other would be on his feet in a matter of weeks – less, even – with none of the injuries he has now in evidence. He had seen other, strong nations recover from crushed heads in little more than a month.

He hoped that the broken neck took the longest to heal.

There were some things, the Prussian knew, though, that wouldn't heal no matter how much time passed, no matter if you were an immortal nation or a human. Being immortal, in fact, would only make the hurt that much worse, that much more _lasting_, and that was why he took them.

_I want you to remember this for a long time_.

Even though it was filthy, the red mist allowed him to stoop to a new level, to return to the primal concept of what a nation _was_. To return, with little feeling at the time, to the ancient way of making a nation yours, forever and always. He considered Ivan Braginski, barely recognizable. Lying there, lost to merciful unconsciousness some time ago. His coat was dark with blood – more blood than any one body should possess, but then, he was a nation, so logic didn't apply to them.

_You need to go now. _

But where he hell was he supposed to go? Even through the illogic of the red fog he knew that it was cold enough to kill if he didn't have a place to flee to?

_You have a nation, you idiot. Go there. You can find somewhere to hide until then._

Until when? What was he even here for? He couldn't remember. He knew for certain that he had been here for a very long time – but past that, there were only flashes of things. Absently, he kicked the larger nation on the ground – there was no groan this time. The Prussian frowned, but the bloodlust was fading, and he knew that there was a stopping point.

"You've stolen everything from me," he whispered, even as he began to move around the room. The new uniform the other had brought down was difficult for him to put on with the chains in the way, but somehow he managed it. The metal links left dark red streaks on the clean fabric. The scarf, too, though it was red and he hated it, was picked up.

_ Yeah, West'll freak if you freeze to death before getting home._

West? The name sounded familiar, in a distant way. But the mental image it called up – the Holy Roman Empire, of all people – didn't seem right. Especially since the two of them never got on particularly well together He thought the other should be older, too, but for the life of him didn't know why. Shrugging, the ancient Empire wound the scarf around his neck, trying to avoid catching it on the chains. Though even he could tell that the manacles wouldn't come off without a professional's help, he made a mental note to ditch the long trailing links – and soon.

His eyes were dark as he turned to head for the door, bloody chains clinking behind him. He looked back only once, and was surprised to see that the other's eyes were already open – tiny slits of purple watching him flee the little dungeon at long, long last.

"… so I've stolen everything from you. Your house is crumbling, Ivan Braginski," he said slowly, the words sounding strange in his mouth. The language didn't seem right either. "Your power is waning. Soon you'll be nothing more than a forgotten empire."

"… just… like… you, _da_?"

That was strange. The Prussian hadn't thought that the other was able to speak. He supposed the shattered jaw was healing faster than he had expected. "You and I are nothing alike, Russia."

"_Da_… I… am… not… an oath… breaker… and… traitor."

The Empire sneered. "And look where that's gotten you. Bloody and broken, brought to your knees."

Part of him wanted to kick the other very badly for that comment, but he satisfied himself with slamming the door behind him and turning the lock. Hopefully no one would be going down for some time. The thought was amusing as he made his way up the icy stairs and onto the main floor.

"_Gilbert_?" The stricken sounding voice came from behind him, and the nation turned to see who was speaking.

"Lithuania," he said evenly, running a hand through his hair. He was unconscious of the fact that the white mop was soaked red. This nation he knew, though he wasn't sure why the other was living with Russia – last he had checked, the rambunctious young knight had gone off with his weird Polish friend.

"Gilbert, what the hell –" The brown haired nation moved towards him, mouth working to form words that didn't seem to want to come. "What _happened_?"

He looked down at the left over blood staining his new uniform – in hindsight, he probably should have wiped off his skin before putting it on. "Oh, this isn't mine," the Prussian said evenly, gesturing to himself. The chains dragging behind him clinked as if in agreement.

"Then – oh my _god_ –" Toris's hands flew to his mouth, his eyes wide in something that was close to horror. "Gilbert, what have you _done_?"

His eyes flicked back to the stairs for a moment, and a cruel smirk appeared. "I've done what I've been meaning to do for a long time. No one humiliates me and gets away with it." He glanced back at Lithuania, whose face had gone somewhat pale. "Just remember that, little Lithuania. I let you break from my knights because it amused me, nothing more. If you dishonor my name, I will be coming after you."

The other stared at him, confusion mixing with the other emotions on his face. "A – are you… ok, Gilbert?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.

The albino man just laughed quietly, and continued down the hall. Toris pressed himself up against the wall to avoid touching the other's bloodstained form. The Prussian put a hand on the door, and pulled it open just a bit. A gust of icy wind raced through the crack, blowing snow along with it. Lithuania couldn't help but shiver, but the other nation didn't appear to notice.

"Oh, I'm fine. I'm _perfectly_ fine," the Prussian said, glancing back over his shoulder. Their eyes met for a long moment – long enough for Lithuania to realize that their red colour had darkened considerably – before the white haired nation turned and slipped out the door.

For a full minute, the Baltic nation stood, rooted to the hallway. Then sense seemed to return to him, and he raced to the door, pulling it open. Outside the landscape had turned white in all directions, the wind whistling in preparation for a storm. There was no sign of anyone.

"Oh god…" the Baltic whispered, leaning on the door, knees suddenly weak. He had promised to look after the other, to keep him sane until Germany came to claim him. And now –

_I didn't think it would happen this quickly! He was supposed to hold on longer. What the hell am I supposed to tell Ludwig now?_

**Spring 1980**

_Germany – _

_ I regret not being able to tell you this to your face. It seems impersonal for me to write to you and tell you this, but there's no helping it. The Soviet is weakening every day, but he seemed determined to hang onto the Wall as long as he can._

_ I won't drag this out. Your brother is no longer with us. No, he isn't dead as far as I know, but we haven't seen him since Christmas. He's effectively disappeared, which I can only say should be good for him. I assume that he's fled to East Germany, and has found a place to hide out until the Wall comes down for good. _

_ I feel that I need to be the one to tell you this, as it was I who promised to look after him. I offer you a warning – don't go looking for your brother. Don't cross the Wall to try and find him, Germany, because he wasn't Gilbert when he left, and I doubt he's Gilbert now. _

_ This may sound strange, but – he's… regressed. I think being in the position he was, he felt that the only option was to return to his Prussian Empire persona. That version of himself is something that you never experienced, because when you came along, you brought sense to his mind. But the nation your brother is now is not the same nation you knew. I doubt he realizes where he is, or what's happened. He was beginning to – forget – things some time ago, but I thought that he would recover. _

_ Please don't take this as a sign to do something rash. Gilbert will be able to survive far better as he is now than if he were still – in the present. If the Wall does fall – I think it may bring him back. Make sure you're there when it does, because even if he doesn't know what's going on, he'll follow his people._

_ I'm so very sorry, Ludwig. I never meant for any of this to happen. I tried to protect him the best I could but – _

_ I hope this letter finds you. I dearly hope it finds you, and you understand. It won't be long now – Hungary is acting up, and some of the other satellites are beginning to rebel. Even though it may seem hopeless from your side, know that._

_ We are fighting. We're going to win. And I swear, your brother will be returned to you._

_- Lithuania_

* * *

**A/N: **_Ok, so... that took a hell of a lot longer than it should have. I'm terribly sorry for the wait!_

_This chapter isn't my favourite, to be honest. I had to force myself to write parts of it, and I don't think it came out entirely the way I wanted it to._

_For those of you who wondered why I didn't include description of what Prussia did to Russia... I considered it, and decided not to write it. That isn't something I want to write in graphic detail. There are a lot of authors on this site who go into specifics about things like that, but I just felt it would be in bad taste. I'll leave it up to you to figure out what happened._

_And if you're still confused as to what's happened, the Prussian Empire and Prussia are two very different people. The Empire is what he was before little Germany came along and gave him a bit of humanity; right now he's got the "army with a nation" sort of mentality._

_Currently, the Prussian Empire doesn't remember what's happened to get him where he is - he remembers how long he's been in Russia's control, but that's about it. He still thinks he's back in his time. So, yes. He's gone off the deep end. _

_If you want clarification, feel free to ask - I'll reply the best I can._

_If you've read, please review!_

_- Pheleon._


	9. Crumbling Foundations

**Soluble Chapter Nine: Crumbling Foundations**

"_A rush and a push and the land that_

_We stand on is ours_

_It has been before_

_So it shall be again."_

_- A Rush and a Push and the Land is Ours, the Smiths_

**Warning: **Some poorly translated words. There's less violence in this chapter, though, so I seem to be getting better!

And on a historical note… Prussia was never officially referred to as the Prussian Empire; it was known as the Kingdom of Prussia. It was mostly a personal preference to have it the way it was.

* * *

**Summer 1981**

"What the hell is this supposed to mean?" Ludwig waved the crumpled paper in his hands under England's nose.

"I can't very well tell you, Germany, when you haven't even let me look at it. All you've done since entering my office is shout at –"

"I think I've damn well earned the right to do some shouting!" The taller man slammed his hands down on the other's desk – the wood groaning alarmingly under the force. "This is the first thing I hear about my brother, and what does it tell me? That he's _regressed?_ Regressed to _what_, exactly?"

Off to the side – keeping quiet for once, and only through supreme effort – Francis felt the blood drain from his face as he listened to Germany's words. Though he had promised Arthur to keep his mouth shut and his hands to themselves, the blond man couldn't help himself.

"Do you mind if I see that?" His voice was slightly strangled in the silence, and he held out a hand that he wished was unsteady due to wine.

Ludwig turned, his face stormy. The two of them hadn't been on good relations for a very long time, and Francis wondered when the last time the German nation _hadn't_ looked at him with a similar expression had been. "How is this any of your business, frog?" he snapped.

Normally France would have responded with something cutting – but he was tired of fighting. And looking at the nation before him – hair falling out of its style, his uniform wrinkled, the telltale shadows under his eyes – the older man couldn't bring himself to say something cruel.

"Ludwig, I'll be frank. I've known your brother a lot longer than you have, and unlike Arthur, I have actually been _friends_ with him. The only other person who knows what the significance of Gilbert Beilschmidt retreating into the past is Spain." He rubbed his temples, eyes closed.

Germany didn't come any closer, but he straightened, taking his weight off of England's desk. "Explain, Francis. Lithuania wasn't exactly _explicit_, and I have no idea what this is –"

"It's a – sort of last resort thing for nations." France didn't look up. Talking to the floor was a better prospect. "And it usually isn't intentional. All of us have something – darker – in our pasts than we'd care to admit. A side to us that can deal with things in a way that we as we are now cannot." Only briefly did he look up, catching Ludwig's expression. "You've only just recently created such a persona, Germany."

His eyes narrowed. "I've defeated that side of myself, Bonnefoy. I won't be –"

"Yes, that's just it. You realized on your _own_ that you had gone off the deep end. Most of us don't, and that side of us haunts us." Francis closed his eyes again, looking pained. The conversation was dredging up old memories that he had spent decades trying to bury away. A younger version of himself, hair stained red from the permanent wound on the back of his neck, fingers blistered from trying to pry the shackles off, drenched in blood, shoulders shaking with almost constant, uncontrollable laughter that turned to raw, screaming sobs at the least –

"Francis." Arthur's sharp voice broke him out of the recollections. Francis looked up again, and realized that his hands had been digging into his skull. "Stay with us, old friend."

"_O – oui_," he muttered. "_Navré._"

"If you'd like me to explain this –"

Francis's laugh was raw. "What, and find myself calling up your Tudor self? Or maybe one of your civil war personas? _Non_, _Angleterre_, I've started this. I'll finish it."

"His Tudor self?" Germany glanced back at Arthur, who sniffed and made a show of being engrossed with his work.

"One of his – other sides that's been created over the centuries. Like his pirate half, though I'm not sure if you ever ran into him then –"

"Francis, if you're just going to go through a rundown of my past, I think I should be the one to properly explain –"

"I was getting to the point." Francis ran a hand through his hair. "Which is what I've been saying. Gilbert had one of these personas as well. They aren't consciously created – we are affected by the times, after all. Most of us don't even realize what we've been doing until our country shifts, and us along with it."

"So you're saying that Gilbert – has decided to act like this other version of himself in order to cope?" It wasn't so unreasonable, Germany supposed, even though he didn't like the idea.

Francis shrugged. "Not exactly – _acting_. When this sort of thing happens – we _become_ that other version of ourselves mentally. It's very likely that Gilbert believes that he's living in the time of the Prussian Empire."

Germany blinked, and a tiny frown appeared on his face. "And this is somehow – bad?"

The French nation's colour still hadn't returned. "Oh, Ludwig, it's _very_ bad. You see – you didn't know Gilbert in the early days of the Empire. When you arrived, you brought reason to his mind – something that we didn't think was possible. It was getting to the point where we were thinking that we would have to find a way to – contain him."

Germany's frown grew, and his eyes widened slightly. "What's – that supposed to mean?" Suddenly his voice was very small.

"It's not by conscious choice, you must understand that! Clearly some part of him couldn't take what was happening any more, and that part of him just – took over. To preserve his body, and his mind." Francis didn't like the look on the other man's face. "But he –"

"Honestly, Francis, stop beating around the bush. It isn't helping any of us." England was looking at his desk, face dark. His pen had snapped at some point, sending black ink splattering across whatever it was he had been reading. When the British nation looked up, there was something close to pity in his eyes.

"I knew Gilbert during those times as well, and I'm sorry. He wasn't just a knight in his early days as the Empire, Ludwig. He was completely insane."

**Winter 1983**

He ducked as another projectile shot past; it left a searing heat on his skin as it just brushed by his cheek. He honestly hadn't thought they would start firing at him so quickly – but lately he had been skulking around too much. They were all on edge, and as tensions in the city itself heated up, the situation was not being made much better.

The white haired demon cackled as he launched himself behind the protection of a stone ruin. He pressed his back against it, his breath pluming in the dark night before him, feeling the sturdiness of what had probably once been a house. He could hear muffled shouting from behind him, but it wasn't getting any closer.

_Good. _That meant the guards weren't chasing after him – as much as Gilbert liked chases through dark ruins in the middle of winter, he wasn't about to complain. He curled further in on himself, moving just enough to peer around the wall –

Brick exploded over his head with a nasty sound, and the albino hastily withdrew his head. It had taken him two years to find his way to this particular city – _Berlin_, a hazy part of his memory told him – and he _still_ hadn't figured out the weapons they were using; nor had he been able to get his hands on one.

What the Prussian Empire _had_ figured out was that the borders as he had known them before captivity were different. Very different. Thirty nine years was a long time, yes, but surely the rest of the European nations hadn't managed to change everything so fast?

"I'll bet it was that Austrian idiot and that pretentious Holy Roman bastard." Those two were always howling at his borders like dogs in the night. He rubbed at his shoulder, grimacing – one of the projectiles he _hadn't_ completely succeeded in dodging had left a stinging sensation where it had passed. They had been faster than he had expected – the Empire had been struck many times when he had first encountered them. But he was getting better, and besides that, he was a _nation_. He wasn't going to be bested by some mortal invention.

Still. The wound stung badly in the cold.

The Empire shivered again, pushing the pain to the back of his mind and tightening the scarf around his neck. Though the thing had been made by his captor, the Prussian had found himself thankful that he had taken it. It had kept him from slipping over that precarious edge one reached when the temperature _really_ began to drop, and there was no immediate source of warmth.

"Heh." He breathed out a puff of fog, which dissipated into the dark sky. Their weapons had fallen silent, and there wasn't any more shouting. Which meant that they were either waiting for his head to make an appearance again, or they had decided that he wasn't worth the effort tonight. It wasn't as if they wouldn't get another chance – he was here almost all the time.

_One of the advantages of being a nation, I suppose_, the Empire thought to himself, loosening the scarf – just enough to wrap around his hair, which stood out a bit too starkly for his liking in the dark. _I don't have to stop to eat. _Unfortunately, he _was_ finding himself having to sleep to keep up his energy – an irritatingly human thing that he couldn't really remember doing since becoming the Prussian Empire.

"Well, I suppose that would be the crux of the problem," Gilbert muttered to himself, pulling out of the crouch. Another tentative peek around the corner of the building – and no ensuing explosions – was enough of a confirmation as he was willing to wait for in the sub zero winter temperatures. "I'm not much of an _Empire_ at the moment… forced to skulk in a hovel and avoid my own people."

Keeping low, he began to move off. The cover of night – and the soft flakes of snow that were beginning to drift down – would offer him enough protection until he was out of the range of their weapons. That had been a pleasure to discover – that as always, there were limits to what the humans could do.

Of course, he mused once he felt safe enough to stand straight, that worked in both directions. His own people had been trampled and defeated, that much was clear. And like the weapons they used, they could only go so far – they seemed to have reached the wall where they were unwilling to do anything about their situation. The petty rebel group he had come across – had attempted to join, to influence – had been a pathetic, watered down version of the political powerhouses _he_ was used to, their leader weak minded. Wasted energy and effort, the so called plans more likely to get innocents killed than achieve anything useful.

Their leader's death had been for the greater good.

It was part of a nation's duty to cleanse their own people, the Prussian Empire knew. At least it had always been _his _practice – some of the others thought he was mad, but their opinions mattered little. And while the murder might have troubled anyone else, the mighty white haired warrior wasn't about to let it weigh down his conscience.

But even as he pushed open the door to the dark, cold ruin that could loosely be termed a house, the Empire couldn't shake the feeling – deep down – that something about all of this was wrong.

**Fall 1987**

His side felt like a knife was lodged there, each rough motion jarring the blade in further. While he could handle the pain, it was the difficulty breathing he was most concerned about. The unseasonably humid air was sticking in his throat and nose like cotton, each breath taking more effort than it should have. And while normally the Empire wouldn't have been worried about any of this at all, even he couldn't escape the fact that he didn't have a weapon – and he was getting tired.

Not to mention there were more of them than there were of him.

And while being outnumbered by mortals wouldn't normally bother him _either_, the field was leveled out when they were all carrying guns. The Prussian had taken – foolishly, he now realized – to the back streets. He had wandered them enough to know mostly where he was going; but right now a crowd was what he was most interested in finding.

_Kkkssshh… I've got him crossing… and… kksssh… head him off at kkkkshhh…_

If he strained hard enough, he could hear their obnoxiously loud radios, the tiny snippets of information letting him know the ever increasing hopelessness of running away from the soldiers. He caught the names of what he supposed were streets – but like the signs in this place, he found that, while irritatingly familiar, he couldn't actually understand them.

The Empire darted down an alley, abruptly changing his course in an attempt to shake off the soldiers watching from the roofs. The darkness of the high walls on either side enveloped him like a lover, wrapping around his body. He took a brief moment to pause for breath, however unwise that was. Blood was pounding in his ears, but the smile on his face told of the exhilaration coursing through that same blood.

The alley was, of course, a dead end.

"_Come and get me, then!" _The Empire laughed, moving further back into the darkness so that they wouldn't be able to see him from the street. He glanced at the barriers hemming him in on either side, and dismissed those – the watchers up high would notice him before climbing would make much of a difference.

"Citizen, come out with your hands above your head." He could see three soldiers – two of them quite young – standing at the mouth of the alley, their weapons trained on the darkness. Only the man in the middle, slightly older, was aiming it in the correct spot.

"Why don't you come in here and make me?" His laugh reverberated off the walls, bouncing up into the sky. "If you're so powerful?"

"Citizen, we won't hesitate to shoot. You've proven to be a danger to society. If you come willingly, you'll be spared." The leader was clearly getting impatient. And with good reason – they had been chasing this man for a good few years, and this was one of a handful of times they had even come close to catching him.

"Spared what, exactly?" His red eyes were narrow, but the smile never left his face. "A quick execution here, to be replaced by an excruciating, drawn out death elsewhere? I know how your people work, _captain_, and I'm not about to –"

_Sssshing – !_

A bullet cracked off of the stone, and ricocheted just over his shoulder. The Empire didn't even flinch.

"Your lackeys are getting nervous. I wonder how long I have to hide in the dark before they start wetting themselves?" His tone was unpleasant, even as the Empire searched for another way out of this place. Being immortal, the prospect of torture was _not_ one he looked forward to.

"If you don't come out of there in ten seconds, Citizen, I will shoot."

"Бог, you remind me of someone with your never ending seriousness." That Holy Roman Empire sprat, always walking around with a scowl on his face. "I don't really like him either." He started to move forward, hands spread out in a mockery of a peaceful gesture. "So why don't you just go to hell?"

This time the bullet hit him in the thigh, metal connecting bone with a sickening sound. The Empire hardly felt the sting, was heedless of the blood staining through the uniform he was wearing. He grinned wildly, even as one of the younger soldiers spooked and another bullet lodged itself in his shoulder. Warmth spread down his chest.

"_Come on, then_!" The Empire howled with laughter, striding forward into the light. His eyes held not a single spark of sanity – but it was the colour that was most unsettling. One of them was red and clouded, a vicious scar cutting straight through it. The other, bright and shining, was a brilliant violet. "Kill me if you can –"

In a nameless backstreet of Berlin, under the dying sun, blood sprayed across the cooling stones.

* * *

"I'm serious, sir. There's absolutely no records of him at all. It's like he doesn't exist."

"Then obviously you haven't searched enough –"

"Sir, we've gone through the records three times, and there's nothing. Absolutely nothing. Whoever he is, he isn't from Berlin. We spend hours last night phoning, and no one else has heard anything about him. All we really know is that his name is Gilbert – and that's because he flat out told us the first time we asked. So either he managed to get here from the other side, or he's a ghost."

The captain sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. _Anyone who voluntarily comes over the Wall is crazy. _This was the last thing he needed right now. "Well, check again," he said at last, trying to give the exhausted looking soldier a sympathetic look. "I want to make absolutely sure that he has no records. Nothing stuffed away in a back room somewhere."

"Sir, the chances of us finding something – he could be from _anywhere_." The soldier wasn't looking forward to the prospect of spending another day in among the musty rooms filled with their dead documents. Faces, many of them probably dead, staring out at him accusingly whenever he opened a record.

"I know, Nikolai. I know. But he's been screwing with us for long enough, there has to be _something_. A newspaper clipping. An address. A _family_. You can't tell me he doesn't have one of those."

"Unless he actually _is_ a ghost." This was muttered, and the captain didn't think he was supposed to have heard it. Nevertheless, his eyebrows pulled down.

"Soldier, he's no more a ghost than you or I. He's solid enough to shoot at and grab –"

"Sir, I'm good friends with one of the men who helped you bring him in. He said you shot him _repeatedly_. That man should be dead by now." His eyes flickered slightly, something close to fear in them. "And yet when I saw him, he was fine; breathing, no sign of any bullets. He isn't even _bleeding_, and it's not like there's doctors to spa–"

The captain's eyes were steely. "You're to keep this under wraps, soldier. No one else is to know about this." He held up a hand to halt any protests. "No. As far as everyone else is concerned, we dragged him here like this. Now, get back to –"

The sound of a phone ringing cut his words off. Both of them jumped, and turned to look at the source of the noise. It wouldn't normally be such an odd thing – except for the fact that both of them were pulling a long overtime, and the city around them was sleeping.

It rang again. Insistently.

"Hello?" The soldier sitting at the desk had reached out and picked it up. "Yes, sir. One moment." He turned and mutely brandished the phone at the captain. "He wants to speak with you, sir," the young man said, hand covering the mouthpiece.

"Did he say who he was?" The captain eyed the phone. Calls in the early hours of the morning were never something to look forward to. The younger shook his head, and he reached out to grab hold of the phone, holding it to his ear.

"Captain Dashkov," he said briskly, disguising the exhaustion in his voice. "To whom am I speaking?"

"Hello, Captain. My name is Ivan Braginski." The cold voice on the other end sent shivers through his toes, though Dashkov couldn't say why. "And I would like to know if the name Gilbert Beilschmidt means anything to you."

* * *

"Do you really think this is such a good idea?"

"It's a _brilliant_ idea, that's what it is. It's not like he can complain, either – we're staying strictly on this side. Gilbert loves loud, colourful things – and this is sure to get his attention."

"Yes, and I suppose even that thickheaded idiot couldn't miss the signs. He should be able to feel it by now."

"Roderich, watch how you refer to my brother." But for the first time in a while, Ludwig's expression wasn't tense or severe. His blue eyes were smiling, even if he wasn't – not that anyone would have expected _quite_ that much out of him.

The three of them made quite an odd group, walking through the streets of Berlin with boxes in their arms. In the middle was Ludwig, tall and imposing despite his unusual good humor. Matching him stride for stride was Roderich, looking slightly more harassed than he usually did, but still seemingly determined to enjoy this moment. And on the other side, taking two steps for every one of the European nations was Matthew, cheeks flushed with the cold wind.

"… Ludwig, where are we going to set these? Not to mention how are the three of us going to –" The question occurred to the Canadian a moment later, as he struggled to adjust his hat – which had fallen over his eyes – when both of his arms were full.

"Don't worry about that. We'll have help, you can be sure of that." The German nation actually chuckled, reaching over with his free hand and pulling Matthew's hat back into its correct position. He had no trouble seeing the quiet nation now; the two of them had become something close to friends – though there was always that lingering memory of a laughing Italian that prevented Ludwig from getting _too_ close. He hadn't seen Italy in some time, and was, despite their history, finding himself missing the boisterous nation. Matthew was a good friend, but sometimes Ludwig found him a tad serious for such a young nation.

"I do expect to be paid back for these, you know." Roderich's tone was that one where Ludwig could never tell if he was actually joking or not. "I'll be sure to hand Gilbert the bill when he gets back."

Ludwig rolled his eyes as they continued down the street, kicking up snow and passing citizens shielding themselves against the cold. That was, he thought grimly, assuming that his brother was going to be mentally sound enough to _pay_ bills. But he refused to believe what Francis and Arthur had told him about this so called regression – they hadn't been able to give him the names of any nations who had gone through it. Perhaps Lithuania had simply been overreacting.

A gust of warm air hit him as the three nations reached his house at last, their cheeks worn red by the chilly wind. It had been a fairly mild December so far, but the cold was still persistent enough to reach deep down into the bones. Ludwig took a moment to lean on the closed door, watching Roderich trying to pull his boots off with his hands full.

_I hope you're somewhere warm, Gil._

* * *

Captain Rolan Dashkov was only aware of one thing at the moment – that for the first time in his life, he wanted to simply curl up and disappear. It was a forcible effort to keep his hands from shaking as he took the other's identification; he made sure to inspect it carefully despite not wanting to take his eyes off the visitor.

"Is everything in order?" He shuddered inside. How could a voice that was so smooth and calm be so unnerving? There seemed to be an undercurrent to that question – Dashkov wondered whether, had his papers _not_ been in order, if he would have even left when told.

"It appears so, sir." At least his voice came out level, if a bit strangled. The other seemed completely unaware of the effect he was having on the man. "I do apologize for the wait, but we need to check everyone's –"

An uplifted hand made him nearly choke on his own words in his haste to stop speaking. The man smiled, eyes curving up. "I understand, Captain. These things must be done. It pleases me to see how efficient you are, even though your little… establishment is but a tiny cog in a greater machine."

"Thank you very much, sir." Had that actually been a compliment? From the smile, Dashkov got the unsettling feeling that he was being made fun of. He stood abruptly – too abruptly, nearly upending his desk. "Now, if you'll follow me, I can –"

"Your assistance will be unnecessary, Captain." The smile was gone now. Dashkov wished it would come back, all of a sudden. The blank faced stare was worse.

"Sir, I can't just let you wander unaccompanied –"

"My papers were in order, yes?" His eyes were getting even colder.

"Well, yes, but –"

"And you _are_ aware of my position, correct?" His voice had gone all strange and flat.

"I am, sir, but –"

The taller man leaned forward, his eyes as chilly as a Siberian winter, until his face was an inch away from the captain's. "Then you will understand, Rolan Dashkov, exactly _what_ I can have done to you. Your presence will be a hindrance. I suggest you remain here, at your desk with your papers, and _leave me to my business._ Have I made myself clear?"

Was it just him, or had the temperature in the room actually dropped? "Y – yes, sir." He sat back down, never taking his eyes off the other, even as the imposing man straightened up, the smile back in place, and began to walk around behind the desk.

"Thank you for your help and diligence, Captain. You do your country a great service." And with that, he was past the captain, and Dashkov turned back to his desk, mouth slightly pinched around the corners.

He knew, with absolute certainty, that if he never saw Ivan Braginski again in his life, it would be too soon. And despite the aggravation their white haired prisoner had been causing them for years, he hoped that whatever he had done to earn the personal attention of such a man, it had been worth it.

* * *

"We seem to be finding ourselves in this situation a lot, Empire." Ivan smiled as he looked through the bars of the cell, hands clasped behind his back.

"Do we?" The albino leaning against the far wall stared back with a bland expression. "I hadn't realized. Last I saw of you, you were –" A thin smile. "Well, not in any condition to be walking. Tell me, _Ivan_, are you feeling better?"

The Russian's expression flickered. "I would watch your tongue. You're on the wrong side of these bars to have any authority."

The Prussian Empire's icy smile faded, mismatched eyes darkening to echo the look in Ivan's. "What do you want, Russia?"

The larger nation wasn't paying attention anymore, reaching into his pocket to come up with a ring of keys that he had most certainly _not_ obtained properly at the front desk. As the Empire watched, Ivan picked through them until he came across the one that seemed to fit the lock. As the Russian slid it in, he raised his eyes to meet the albino's.

"I've come to claim what is rightfully mine, Empire. _You_ might not be aware of the current situation in your own country, but _I_ am." Ivan fiddled with the key for a moment. "You see, the Wall is going to fall. I know this. I have come to accept it." A smile appeared, one that gradually grew more and more ominous as Ivan managed to get the lock open. "However, I am ever a nation of my word, unlike you."

"You wouldn't know the first thing about loyalty, you –" The Prussian Empire had pushed himself away from the wall, watching Ivan warily, muscles tense.

"Oh, please." There was a strange, flat calm about the other's voice. "You're the oathbreaker here, and we both know it. You murder your own people, attack without discretion, and are a _disgrace_ to the position you hold." He pulled on the cell door, and it opened with hardly a sound.

"Come on then, Ivan." The Prussian Empire's hands were twitching reflexively, his eyes narrowed. "Let me see what someone like you can do to an empire."

The Russian laughed; a curiously high pitched sound. "You really _don't_ know. And that's what's going to make the reunification _so much sweeter_." While he was talking, the nation pulled the door shut behind him, hard enough to jam it shut.

There was a subtle edginess in the Empire's attitude now. "What the hell are you talking about, Ivan?"

With speed that he shouldn't have been capable of with such a large frame, the arctic nation lunged forward, closing the small gap between them. The Empire thrashed as Ivan's hands closed around his shoulders, slamming him into the wall – but this wasn't a Russia taken by surprise in the dark. This was a Russia who knew full well how to utilize his strength. The Prussian snarled, but found himself powerless to do much else. He lashed out with his legs, but their close proximity – and the deliberate angle at which the Russian was grabbing him – removed any advantage that might have brought.

"An Empire, are you? So weak that you can't even resist me… tell me, _Gilbert_, is this how it's supposed to feel?" Ivan leaned in closer, eyes narrow. "You have to sleep like a human. You even have to _eat_ like a human just to get through a day. You can't run, and you have no strength. You can't even remember how you got here."

The thinner nation struggled again – but the effort left him panting slightly, eyes flashing angrily as he tried to keep Ivan in focus while the other was so close. "Go to _hell_, you Russian –"

"Sshh." The childish giggle again. "I wouldn't insult me, if I were you. I'm in a good mood, despite our history together." The smile was getting sickeningly wide. "Ludwig can have his damn reunification. But I'm going to take away the thing he loves most. I will make sure a part of you will _always_ be mine."

The Prussian Empire stared at the Russian for a long moment, confusion lurking behind his mismatched eyes. When the other merely chuckled in response to the look, the albino chose the most sensible option he could think of.

He spat in Ivan's face.

The smile disappeared quickly, and the other's grip became nothing short of painful. The Russian's eyes grew even darker and despite his usual attitude, some part of the Empire wondered if shutting up and keeping still wouldn't have been a better idea.

* * *

"Sir? I really don't think we should be –"

The captain waved a hand, cutting off the protest. His other was clenched around a pen, which was digging a hole in the document in front of him. "Shut up."

"But sir, this is _in –_"

"No. This isn't our responsibility. We don't get involved."

The other officer settled down after a moment, and turned back to his desk. But despite their attempts to act as if nothing was wrong, neither of them was doing anything. It was as if they couldn't concentrate on anything else in the silence of the front entrance.

As the pen in his hand finally broke, spraying black ink across the formal paper, the captain tried to block out the muffled sounds of snapping bone and screams coming from the back.

**Winter 1988**

It was the sound of something exploding – cold and sharp in the winter air, like a gunshot – that jerked him out of his thoughts. Languidly, he lifted his eyes to peer out the single window. Outside, the sky was black and still – but he could see people in the street despite the curfew, many of them looking at the sky. Their murmurs were too loud for them to be gathering for some sinister purpose – and he thought he could even see some soldiers among them.

He glanced back to the sky again. Still as black as ever. Even the stars hadn't been able to find the energy to come –

A brilliant streak of colour and noise lit up the sky. Something tiny trailed sparks as it soared into the sky. For a moment he was tense, waiting for the inevitable destruction such a weapon would bring – and then the whole sky lit up.

His mouth opened slightly, and he leaned closer to the glass. The blinding explosion of lights faded after a moment, but it was burned onto his eyes. This time he kept his eyes trained on the sky, eyes wide.

Another shrieking whistle, another beautiful explosion of sparks that lit up the dark sky like miniature suns.

The Empire watched the colours, wondering what they could be – some new invention from the East, perhaps? They were always coming up with strange, mostly pointless things – though as he considered the way the lights lit up the streets, part of him wondered if these weren't the prelude to some sort of attack.

"… I wonder who's – aggh…" He tried to speak, but was cut off as a stabbing pain lashed through his chest, his entire heart seeming to seize up. The albino let out a long, low groan, leaning back against the wall of the tiny house he was in. He had been getting these spasms a lot as of late, and while he wasn't normally worried about physical pain – these were starting to get rather alarming.

This one, though, seemed to be worse than others. He struggled to his feet – lately it had been difficult to do much of anything without quickly becoming exhausted – and tried to move back to the equally tiny bed that he had been given.

He managed to get halfway there before the pain grew even worse, and the Empire collapsed to the floor, cursing.

* * *

"We're nearly done, Ludwig! We've just got this last big one –"

"Thanks be to heaven. I can't feel any to my extremities anymore – only lunatics stand out in the middle of _winter_ for three hours –"

"Oh, can it, Austria. We all know you enjoyed doing this just as much as Germany and I."

The Austrian replied with something that was decidedly _not_ refined. The Canadian he was insulting just laughed, pushing his hat back up his head, cheeks flushed. Germany, trying to set up the last firework, just rolled his eyes. The Austrian had learned to see the quiet Western nation as well, and the two had hit it off for some reason that the German was still trying to figure out.

"Come on, you two. I need some help keeping this one steady. It's the last one, and then we can go inside and get something warm." For once the blond man seemed to be in a genuinely cheerful mood as he struggled to keep the thing from tipping over on him. "Now get over here and hold this, would you?"

Still laughing, Matthew jogged over, seemingly totally unaffected by the chilly atmosphere. He held the firework steady as Ludwig tamped it into the bucket of sand properly. Roderich sniffed, and kept his distance – he still had scorch marks in his hair from the last one, which had gone off prematurely while he was still trying to hold on to it.

"Alright, everyone stand back!"

There was a flash of a match from the German, and then he was scrambling backwards as the base of the firework began to spark. A moment of anticipation – and then in a concussive explosion of sound, it rocketed skyward, spilling sand across the pavement. The three of them watched its progression, until it lit the sky up with red and white lights, each exploding into their own miniature bursts, crackling loudly.

"I hope he sees them," Roderich said after a moment, watching the sparks spiral down, face lit strangely.

"I hope _everyone_ sees them," Matthew said quietly, tucking his hands into his jacket pocket. "Just so they all know they aren't alone."

Ludwig remained silent for a moment, before – to the surprise of the other nations – he started chuckling softly. Roderich and Matthew shared a mystified look, which the German nation caught out of the corner of his eye.

"I was just thinking," he said, crossing his arms as the last firework dissipated. "This has to be the best Christmas gift ever. Gilbert's going to spend the next twelve months trying to figure out how to top it."

Roderich stared for a moment, before he too smiled. "That would be _just_ like him."

"In any case," Canada murmured as the trio finally turned away from the Wall. "I hope he's having a good Christmas over there… wherever he is."

* * *

His eyes finally left the sky, somewhat disappointed that the show hadn't lasted longer. The nation turned back to prod at his meal – though it was well past the normal mealtime, lately he had found himself staying at work for longer and longer periods. It wasn't that there was that much more to do – though his pile never seemed to get any smaller – it was just that his office was more welcoming than his house.

Today, though, he was glad he had opted to not return home yet – though dinner in said office wasn't anything special, it had been nice to be able to see the fireworks. His heart had lifted as the bright colours burst across the night sky, and for a while he had been able to forget everything.

"Oh, Ludwig." Ivan Braginski speared a vegetable on his fork with a touch more viciousness than required. His usual smile was lurking around his lips as he considered it. "Your gesture is cute… but ultimately, meaningless. Your brother might as well be dead; for all that you and the Empire have in common…"

* * *

His entire body had gone numb. The only sound in the tiny house – given to him by Russia for reasons that he didn't care to contemplate – was his ragged breathing and the sound of his heartbeat.

_How the hell is this even – what the fuck is this supposed to – what the hell has he done to me?_

The Empire's thoughts chased themselves around in his mind the way a dog would chase its tail; to no point or resolution. His mind simply couldn't grasp what it was that was going on; never before had something like this happened – and he was the kind of person who usually wasn't fazed by anything.

His free hand wandered up to his chest, carefully exploring it without his ever looking down. It wasn't as if it _hurt_ – though the process certainly had. Now it was just more of a funny, empty feeling. Part of him wondered how he was managing to survive, considering the blood that was running down his chest, pooling on the floor around him. These thoughts were secondary, however, and mostly disorganized, his mind unable to get past the thing he was looking at.

His own heart – bloody and still beating – lay there on the floor where it had ripped itself from his chest.

**Winter 1989**

"_Herr_ Beilschmidt, _Herr_ Beilschmidt!"

Ludwig didn't look up from his desk as his office door burst open. The only indication he gave of having heard the disturbance was the crease that appeared between his eyebrows. Still writing, he waved his guest towards one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Used to having his orders obeyed without question, the German nation didn't look up to ensure they were. He wasn't expecting to have someone wrap their arms around him, hugging him with _far_ too much enthusiasm.

Ludwig stiffened in his seat, the pen jerking wildly across the document at the unexpected and forceful embrace. The crease deepened, a scowl appearing on his features.

"_Herr_ Schulze." His voice was brittle as he recognized his personal secretary from the corner of his eye. "Kindly remove yourself from me this instant."

"Apologies, sir, it's just –" The normally composed man looked positively over the moon, his glasses slightly askew, his hair mussed.

Ludwig wasn't impressed. "Schulze, there are very few things in the world that would call for you to hug me. I suggest that you start explaining –"

"Hungary's letting people through!" The shorter man could hardly contain himself, rocking back on his heels. "I'll get to see my mother and little sister before tonight!"

Ludwig blinked, momentarily confused. "What? Hungary's letting people –" His eyes widened as he realized just what his secretary had meant, and he felt like hitting himself for a moment. How the hell could he have been so wrapped up in work – his eyes flickered guiltily to where his radio used to stand. He had broken the thing only a short while ago, frustrated beyond all words.

"The barrier's broken, sir!" Schulze was practically beside himself with glee. Ludwig remembered vaguely that the other was one of his many staff members who had family on the other side of the Wall. "The people in East Germany aren't waiting for the official portals to open, they're just climbing straight over the thing – it's all over the news, you have to come!"

The German man hardly needed any more prompting. Thinking only enough to grab his coat off of the rack by the door, the tall blond left his office at a dead run, his heart in his mouth.

* * *

There was something going on. The Empire winced as pain stabbed through the left side of his chest, but he hauled himself to the door anyway, pushing it open and leaning on the doorframe. He carefully avoided the dark patch that he hadn't been able to scrub from the floor. Some part of him worried that something so simple – getting up and walking – had cost him so much energy, but the sight outside was enough to banish most of those thoughts from his mind.

People. Everywhere. Yelling and shouting – but it wasn't in panic, he realized a moment later. They were making such a noise because there was something going on, something _big_, that was –

"Come on, then, you're not just going to stand there, are you?"

The Empire looked down to the source of the voice, blinking as his eyes settled upon a girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen.

"Mister, you're not just going to _stand_ there, are you? Mommy says they're taking down the Wall, and that we can all go home now!"

_Home?_ The albino blinked, confused. Wasn't this home? He was a nation, and this was where he was, so it fell to reason… "What's that mean?" The words came out without his thinking of it, and from her expression, he could tell he'd said something wrong.

"You're weird – of course this isn't home! Or, at least it wasn't while that ugly Wall was up. But now they're taking it down – come on and help out! The soldiers aren't stopping us!"

She didn't wait for the Empire to reply, laughing and merging back with the faceless stream of people rushing by. The white haired man stared after her for a long moment, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. Gradually, his lips twitched upwards into something that might have been called a smile.

"Yeah…" he muttered. "I'll come… help." With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the doorframe, walking away from the crumbling house.

It was the first time in a while that he had seen his own people so cheerful. Ten years of living among them, and they had seemed so broken – and yet here they were, laughing and hugging and celebrating with complete strangers. There was a distant sort of thrill in his body – as if he should have been feeling this same euphoria. Instead, he was feeling a sense of sadness – underlined by something that he placed as bitter satisfaction. Grimacing, the pale nation tightened the red scarf around his neck as if to ward off these sensations, and kept on walking.

It was as if something was pulling him to this Wall – the barrier that he still didn't understand the purpose of. The Empire couldn't shake the sensation that he was forgetting something very, _very_ important.

* * *

Ludwig was sure, in years to come, he would remember this moment. He had reached the Wall just as his own people began pulling it apart with anything they could get their hands on. Some of the more adventurous citizens had staked out spots along the thing and were scaling up the stone. Everywhere there was a sense of euphoria, and the German nation laughed as his nation's joy filled his own heart.

Feeling a century younger, the blond moved through the crowd until he reached Russia's stone monstrosity. He placed a gloved hand on the stone, brushing over it for a moment, before his hand curled into a fist.

"You see?" he demanded of the sky, his voice lost in the many behind him. "You see, Ivan? I've won, in the end! Your Union is collapsing, and I will have my brother back!"

Pulling his gloves off, the German nation began to follow the example of many of the other citizens – he started climbing. As he rose above the people, their cheers boosting him up all the way, he couldn't help but let out a laugh. He stood on top of the Wall, and looked out over East Germany, looked down at the people gathered below on that side, cheering just as loud as their Western counterparts. The soldiers dotted among them looked lost in the sea of people, but a few of them were tentatively smiling as well. With the sun to his back, Ludwig let out a laugh as the first people climbing the Wall from the Eastern side reached the top. He leaned down and grasped the hand of the first young man, hoisting him up.

"_Willkommen zu hause_," he said, squeezing the other's shoulder even as he turned to help the next person up. "_Endlich_."

* * *

The Empire waited.

Having gotten close enough to the structure to see his people tearing the thing apart with everything they could find, he decided to hang back. He couldn't really explain his reluctance to get closer to the construct, only that something in his heart was telling him to stay away – to stay here. But curiosity always _had_ been one of his faults, and so the Empire was torn – remaining where he was, but unable to get any closer.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath, hands trying to dig themselves into the brick of the ruined house he was lurking behind. "You've been so damn _interested_ in the whole thing for the past ten years… stop being such a damn _coward_ and just go up to it…"

But despite his words, the Empire couldn't move.

Instead, he let his eyes wander the Wall, watching people clambering over, helped up by who he could only assume were his citizens from the _other _side of the thing, despite the total disconnect he felt when he looked at them. It was impossible that they belonged to anyone else, though – his Empire was not so small that another nation would have appeared on his doorstep without his noticing. Perhaps the separation – which, when he tried to think about it, he couldn't recall how long it had been – was to blame for it. They _were_ his; he just wasn't used to seeing them. Was such a thing possible for a nation?

As he watched the figure of a tall blond hoist a little girl – was that the same girl who had told him to come here? – to the top, the Empire nodded to himself. Yes. Such a thing _must_ me possible.

* * *

Alone, perched on the roof of a building, stood the Russian. A wind was tossing the ends of his scarf wildly behind him, but he remained unmoved, leaning on his pipe. There was a faint smile around his lips as he watched the stream of humanity reach the Wall.

"You haven't won, Germany," he whispered, one hand resting over his heart. "You haven't gotten _anything_ back."

The Russian tilted his head back and laughed as his family collapsed around him, the raw, broken notes lost to the wind and the isolation of the rooftop.

* * *

As the day wore on, the Empire felt a gnawing sensation start up in his stomach. As more of his people fled over the barrier – and now through it, as the checkpoints had been opened – he felt himself growing more and more tired. As if his strength was draining away with his people. A cough had started somewhere about midday – one he remembered having while imprisoned, but that he had thought had disappeared upon his escape.

And still he refused to move, red-purple gaze confused and wary.

Had anyone who had known the Prussian Empire been there to witness it, they would have been shocked. Caution had never been one of his traits – he would have been the first one over that divide, simply to see if there was anything to invade on the other side. And yet he was here – skulking behind rubble, unable to make himself move forward or go back.

"What the hell…" he muttered to himself. The crowd was significantly smaller than it had been at the start of the day – though the blond man who he had first seen was just getting down from the top now. Licking his lips – unable to explain the reluctance that lurked in his heart – the Prussian Empire pushed himself away from the rubble.

He could tell instantly that something was wrong as he approached the huge construct. The Empire managed to slip through the crowds of people trying to get through the opened checkpoints, until he was standing right at the entrance to one. As he reached out a hand to idly brush the stone, a wave of dizziness washed over him.

"I know, right?" A young man who looked about the same age as the albino had come up beside him, and whacked the nation across the shoulder. "It's a total rush. We're going to go home! I get to see my dad for the first time! Oh, come on, don't give me that look. You've probably been out here in the sun too long." He seemed strangely cheerful – though that appeared to be the mood of most people around them. "Come on, I'll give you a hand."

He had apparently missed the outraged look in the Empire's eyes as he slung one of the albino's arms over his own shoulder. The nation let his hand fall away from the wall, and at almost the same time, the dizziness started to fade.

"I can walk on my own," he growled as the two of them started to make their way under the stone. All around the press of people was immense, and despite himself the nation found himself getting edgy. There was a funny sensation in the back of his head that he was, for the moment, ignoring."

"You sound absolutely awful, you know that?" His helper didn't seem to be affected by the Empire's tone. "You got some sort of chest cough? Not to mention you're skinny as hell. I think I could carry you without trouble, if I tried –"

"If you try, I will ensure that it will be the last thing you ever do." The Empire was still trying to separate himself from the other when the tight press of people suddenly seemed to relax.

It took him a moment to figure out why, exactly, this was. The sunlight hit his face, and squinting, the Empire tried to make sense of where he was.

"We're home!" His companion let out a laugh, finally letting the albino go. "We're finally back in West Germany!"

_West Germany?_ The Empire blinked. What the hell was "West Germany?" Last he had checked, this entire area was still under _his_ control, and he was pretty sure he hadn't renamed it recently. The sensation in the back of his head was growing, as well as a dull throbbing in his chest, as though his heart was trying to –

He clutched at his chest, eyes wide. He wasn't going to let that happen again. It had been bad enough the first time around, and he would be _damned_ if he let that kind of weakness show in front of his own citizens –

But _were_ they his own citizens? His mind was swirling in circles, catching bits of conversation in a harsh language that he didn't understand, and the throb in his skull and chest was turning into a pounding sensation. There was something _wrong_, but he couldn't articulate what it _was – _

"H – hey." The voice of the young man again, at his elbow. "Are you alright? You don't look so good –"

The Empire latched on to him as the one person he could understand in this sea of colour and noise. His fingers dug deeply into the other's shoulders, with a strength that his thin frame shouldn't have had. A moment later, though, he was letting go again, trying to fold in on himself, fingers digging into his chest. Choking coughs escaped his mouth, but he was focused on trying to keep his heart where it was.

"Hey!" The young man was shouting, trying to be heard above the crowd. "Help! I need a doctor! There's something wrong with him!"

The Empire was vaguely aware of people stopping. Several tried to reach out to touch him where he was hunched over, but he let out such an animalistic snarl at every attempt that most were too wary to continue trying. These weren't his people, he knew. They were strangers, and he _didn't know them_, and _oh god someone make it stop_ –

"_What's going on?_" A stern voice broke through the sounds – people still celebrating in the background, the frantic cries of the young male trying to get someone's attention. The Empire shied away from that voice, too, not understanding the harsh language.

"_I don't know, he was looking a little ill when I helped him over, and then he just started to grab his chest and cough, and –_" Now the only person he had been able to understand was speaking in that same language, and the Empire staggered away from him as well, clutching his chest.

"_Gilbert_?" He thought that might have been a name – he wasn't sure. _"Brother, what's wrong? What happened?_"

The pavement met his knees painfully, and the albino let out a ragged gasp as a pair of hands gripped his shoulders. He raised his head with effort, sweat running down the sides of his face, and stared into a pair of impossibly blue eyes. There was fear in them – far too much fear for the condition of a total stranger.

"_Brother! Tell me what's wrong!_" The voice was frantic, and perhaps slightly familiar, but – the Empire groaned again, his heart pulsing rapidly. "_I need a doctor, _now_! Don't just stand there, _get moving_! Can't you see he needs help?_"

The face swam into view again, and the larger man shifted his grip so that he was cradling the albino. The Empire wished he wouldn't do that, but there was no strength left in his limbs.

"_Don't worry, brother. Someone's coming. You're going to be alright. Just hold on_."

He opened his mouth slightly, breath rattling. There was darkness eating away at the edges of his vision, but before he collapsed completely, the Prussian managed to get three words out – three words that left the blond man holding him staring back in undisguised horror.

"Who… are… you…?"

* * *

_**A/N: **Again, that took waaay too long to write for it being a span of ten years. Agh. On the bright side, I did manage to get it out sooner - though I'm dreadfully sorry for the month long wait. I'm graduating this year, and it seems that this semester is giving me a massive overload of work. On top of that, I'm taking a full load, so I don't really get much of a break between school, work, sports, and my other stuff._

_Anyway, my personal stuff aside... a few notes..._

_From this point, whenever the story is focusing on Prussia, and someone's dialogue is _all_ in italics, it's because he can't understand what they're saying. I, however, want you guys to be able to read it without flipping to footnotes every other line._

_If anyone can guess what's up with Prussia, feel free to share. If you get it right, I'll let you know! :D_

_If you're wondering where 1985 went... I was going to write something for it, but I just couldn't think of anything... so I just kind of... deleted it. But hey, you got 1988!_

_After what... 70,000 words, I think? This story has certainly taken a completely different path from what I originally thought it would..._

_Thank you so much for all of your reviews - they make my day when I see them!_

_If you've read, please review!_

_Pheleon._


	10. Calling in the Cavalry

**Soluble Chapter Ten: Calling in the Cavalry**

_"I'll be awake if he finds us  
needless to say  
I'll stand in your way  
I will protect you  
a__nd I..._

_I'll take the shot for you  
I'll be the shield for you  
needless to say  
I'll stand in your way..." - Shot, The Rasmus_

_**What happened last chapter: **The Wall has crumbled, and East and West have been reunited - sort of. Gilbert might be back in body, but his mind is far away, trapped in his memories of being a Teutonic Knight. He doesn't know who his own brother is, and he can't understand what anyone is saying. Russia seemed far too relaxed about letting his German toy escape his fingers, and that can't mean anything good for the Prussian..._

**__****_Warning: There's a good deal of swearing near the end of this chapter. Gilbert doesn't play nice when people come to visit._**

* * *

"Ludwig, you've got to eat something." The other nation's voice was soft – very soft – but insistent. "You need to look after yourself as well, you know." The shadowy man moved to stand next to the seated German nation, putting a hand on his shoulder. "This is killing you. He wouldn't want –"

"It's not like he would care." The blond's voice was ragged. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of many nights of lost sleep. "He doesn't even know who I am."

"You can't know that. He was confused – I'm sure once he wakes up, he'll be –"

"_I_ know. That's what he said to me. There wasn't any recognition in his face when he looked at me. I'm just a stranger to him." Ludwig ran a hand through his hair, furious at his inability to do anything more than _sit_ here, listening to his brother's labored breathing.

The white haired nation was laying in the middle of the bed, sheets piled around him. His skin was so pale he looked like a corpse – and the fact that his thin chest was hardly rising and falling didn't help. The Prussian nation looked far worse than Germany could ever remember seeing him, and he couldn't escape the gnawing guilt that it was all his fault for letting them hand his brother over to the Russian.

"Ludwig." A thin hand reached down and carefully pried his fingers from where they had curled around the sheets. "Ludwig, I'll stay here for a bit. Go have a shower, get yourself something to eat. If anything changes, I'll let you know right away."

"But I –"

"Germany." The nation's usually soft spoken tone sharpened. "If you don't start looking after yourself, you'll end up in the same condition. Letting yourself waste away with guilt isn't going to help your brother. When he wakes up, he needs you to be strong." And then Ludwig found himself being pushed out of the chair. He moved across the darkened room like he was half dead, each step dragging until he reached the door.

"The moment anything –"

"Yes, I'll let you know. Don't worry. Go."

Matthew Williams watched the European nation leave, shutting the door quietly behind him, and only then did he allow his rigid posture to slump. There were circles under his eyes as well, and his hair curl was limp. The Canadian hadn't slept much more than the German nation for the past week, and it was getting harder to hide the symptoms of exhaustion. Fortunately, Ludwig himself didn't have eyes for anything other than Gilbert – and Roderich hadn't been able to get away from work yet.

"Come on, Gilbert," the quiet man murmured, reaching out to take a pale hand in his own. The albino's skin was like ice; they had given up on trying to figure out what was going on with his body. His overall temperature was below normal, and yet he was burning with fever. "Come on. Wake up. Even for a little. Ludwig's going to kill himself with worry if you don't, and –"

The Prussian nation didn't respond at all; his labored breathing painful but constant.

Matthew stared at him for a long moment, expression blank, before leaning forward, burying his head in the crook of his elbow. The comforter on the bed ticked his nose, but the Canadian didn't even notice.

"_Please_, Gilbert." He hadn't even really known Ludwig's wild older brother. But he had become friends with the younger Germanic nation and Matthew hated watching him – both of them – waste away in front of his own eyes. "Fuck, Gil. You've got to wake up. You just have to." He could feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and he tired to blink them back furiously, lifting his head slightly –

– just as the hand he was holding onto twitched.

The Canadian nation blinked, eyes wide, and looked down. He willed himself not to hope – there had been too many close calls during the past week. The fingers twitched again, stronger this time. That wasn't his imagination. Matthew allowed himself to raise his eyes slowly, towards the head of the bed –

"Stop being such a damn pansy. Let go of my hand." The Prussian nation's thin face was anything but impressed, and his hand jerked again as he tried to make the muscles in his arm cooperate with his brain.

Matthew could only stare in shock for a moment. "G – Gilbert?" His voice came out as a strangled squeak.

His eyebrows angled down even further. "Who the fuck else would it be?" Slowly, the head turned on the pillow, the simple movement requiring obvious effort. "Now, where the hell am – "

"_LUDWIG!_"

The albino's entire body jumped – well, jerked, as the weight of the blankets prevented much movement – as Matthew shouted in the loudest voice he had ever used. The Prussian's mismatched eyes stared, wide, at the other, trying to figure out why this stranger was grinning so widely at him.

"Gilbert, _you're awake! Are you feeling alright? Does anything hurt –_"

The albino let his eyes slide around the room, trying to tune out the other. The window's shutter was drawn, and in his current condition there was no way he'd be able to break through what looked like solid wood.

"_… _Gilbert?" A note of uncertainty had crept into the voice, and the albino's mismatched eyes flicked back to peer at the thin face. "_So you are paying attention_."

"Where am I?" Gilbert finally said, once he was reasonably sure that his voice wouldn't grate too much. "How did I get here?"

He hadn't spent years in court deciphering the slightest facial twitches like the Austrian had, but even the Prussian Empire could tell that the frown on the blonde's face wasn't good news. "_You really don't remember? Ludwig brought you here after you collapsed in the –_"

Both of their heads snapped around as the door opened, sending light spilling into the dark room. Gilbert's eyes narrowed almost to slits as his good eye struggled with the unexpected brightness from the landing beyond.

"Gil?" A new voice – the deeper one he remembered from his times of semi-consciousness, the one that was irritatingly familiar but he couldn't place. "Gilbert…"

"Yes, I know who I am," the Empire snapped, suddenly annoyed with the way these people were treating him. He mustered up what energy he could – trying to ignore the painful twinges on the left side of his chest – and forced himself into a slightly more raised position. "Now what I would like to know is where the hell am I?"

The taller man – also blonde – who had just entered the room took a few more steps inside, half closing the door behind him. "_You're in my room. Yours was still a bit… dusty, and we didn't want to aggravate anything…_"

Gilbert just stared blankly back, privately frustrated that they were doing this song and dance again. "Is this Ivan's idea of humor?" he finally asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. It certainly seemed like something the Russian would cook up – give him the illusion of freedom, only to turn it into some twisted mind game.

"Gil, Ivan… _Isn't here. You're safe, back in West Germany. The Wall is gone. You've come home._" If the Prussian wasn't mistaken, there was a note of desperation in those words, however garbled they might have been. It was curious, though – while he couldn't understand either of these men, their words sounded completely different from one another, as if they were speaking different languages themselves.

"I'm not going to fall for this shit again," the Empire said at length, resorting to the only thing he could possibly assume was going on here. "Do whatever you want to me, but I'm not going to break." He could feel a pounding growing in the back of his head again, but this time he fought against it, fought to remain conscious.

The other two men shared what seemed to be a confused look. "_Maybe… you ought to go back to sleep, _Gil," the one beside his bed said at length.

The Prussian's eyes narrowed, and he tried to keep them both in his working sightline – difficult, as the taller of the two was moving off to the other side of his bed, fading off into the blackness that filled his vision there. "Piss off," he said, lip curling. "The both of you." The pounding was getting worse, and he wondered if these two had anything to do with it. Probably. "I was fine before some idiot decided I needed to come here, wherever the fuck _here_ is." Silently, he cursed the heaviness of his limbs, his inability to make them move the way he wanted.

"_You really don't know who I am, do you?_" The tall one again, staring at him with that look like a kicked dog – a dog _he_ had kicked. Gilbert wished he understood exactly what he had done to deserve such a look, because last time he had checked, he hadn't ever seen this man in his life.

"There's something familiar about you, though…" he muttered to himself, not realizing his voice was getting fainter. His body, upon realizing that it was no matter of life and death, was starting to relax, to slow down. Now that he didn't need to be aware to survive, his brain was taking the opportunity to shut down as much as possible.

The kicked puppy look brightened slightly, and the Empire was struck with the disturbing thought that they could understand what he was saying.

Gilbert's brow furrowed, even as his eyes started to flutter shut, even as he wondered if this was all some fever-induced dream, and he was really lying on the floor of his battered ruin of a house. He focused on that face, that irritatingly familiar yet strange face; as if someone's features he had known had been stretched, aged –

It hit him, then. Why those sky blue eyes – dark though they were for some reason – reminded him of someone. He struggled to get his brain to make his jaw move, to form the words before he collapsed back into his comforting darkness.

"Holy… Rome?"

* * *

"What'd I tell you?" Ludwig's voice was slightly muffled by his hands, which were covering his face. He leaned his elbows on the kitchen table and let out a long sigh. Though he loved his brother dearly, some part of him hadn't been able to stay in that rom anymore, watching the other take shallow, ragged breaths. Not after that.

"Germany, you can hardly take anything he says right now seriously. His temperature is high even for one of us –"

"And feel his skin, and it's like ice. It doesn't make sense, Matthew." Ludwig peered around his fingers, watching the younger nation puttering around his pristine kitchen. "You can't tell me this is normal. He thinks I'm a dead nation from his past."

"Don't you find it curious, though? That he called you Holy Rome? I mean –"

"I don't have time to be curious right now, Canada. I don't care who he thinks I am, just that he starts _remembering_ that I'm his brother. Once Gilbert's back to normal, then I'll start asking questions."

Matthew fell silent for a long moment, too tired to be offended at the other's brusque tones. Eventually he heaved a sigh, and leaned back against the counter "You know – Arthur and Francis said that he would have reverted to his time as a Teutonic Knight, right?"

"What of it?" Ludwig lifted his head out of his hands, running his fingers through already mussed up hair.

"Well –" Matthew chewed on his bottom lip, weighing something. "Then it stands to reason that he doesn't remember us. Neither of our nations were around at the time, so why would he? But if we could get someone to come who he would know… maybe it would help?" He tugged on his curl absently. "And if not, it might make him just a little more comfortable. And maybe less willing to go disappearing out of the nearest window once he figures out that we've been drugging him."

Ludwig sighed, looking more distressed than ever. "You know we had to," he said, his voice smaller than Matthew was used to. "He was just going to hurt himself if he kept thrashing around like that…"

The Canadian nation shook his head. "I'm not accusing you, Germany. I know the reasons, and they're sound. I'm just saying, from what I gather he's already suspicious of us because we're strangers to him. Once he realizes that we're actively preventing him from being able to move – well, he's not going to be happy." A ghost of a smile flickered across Ludwig's wan face at that, and Matthew echoed it. "So a familiar face around the house might make him less anxious."

"Yeah but who's going to come? Gilbert's a pain to deal with when he's normal, and it's not like he has many friends. Elizveta isn't in any shape to begin helping anyone but herself, and…" Ludwig's voice trailed off as realization struck. Matthew, seeing that the German nation was finally seeing where he was going with this, nodded.

"We need to call Roderich."

* * *

_Brrrring…. Brrrring…. Brrrring…._

From under the covers can a very pungent stream of swear words that a rational individual would have been shocked to hear coming from the mouth of the normally polite Austrian. The lump on the bed struggled for a long moment, as the phone kept on ringing insistently, and eventually a head surfaced.

Roderich Edelstein looked anything but pleased. His hair was sticking up in defiance of gravity, and at some point in the night the ever-present curl had bent itself into awkward angles. He glared, bleary eyed, in the general direction of the phone. He'd thought, originally, that simply ignoring the call would have been enough. But no, either he was suddenly extremely popular – unlikely – or the individual on the other end of the line was singularly determined to get hold of him.

_ Brrrring…. Brrrring…. Brrrring…._

"I'm coming, you –" The man muttered a few other choice words, before grabbing for the phone on his night table. Without his glasses, it was a bit of a trial to judge the distance properly, but after a few mishaps – resulting in a painfully bruised hand – he managed to grab hold of it.

"Are you aware of what time it is, you idiot?" The Austrian glared at the wall opposite, as if that would help. "It's three in the morning, and I –"

He paused for a long while, the angry expression on his face slowly draining away. By the end of what appeared to be a lengthy explanation, his face was almost white and he looked anything but sleepy.

"Y – Yes, I understand," he said slowly. "No, isn't any trouble at all… No, no, don't worry about it. I have my ways... Yes, Ludwig. I'll be there as soon as possible… No, I'm leaving now… Don't worry about it… Goodbye."

He hung up the phone with a shaking hand – missing the receiver several times, and making his hand throb even more. For a long while he simply sat there, staring off into space, with a vaguely bewildered expression on his face.

"Come on," Roderich muttered to himself eventually, pulling himself out of the warm embrace of the bed. "For once, he's the one who needs _you_, and you're not going to let him down because you're _tired_."

It only took a few moments for the Austrian to grab what essentials he thought Ludwig wouldn't be able to provide, throw on some appropriate clothing, and make his way out into the darkened streets of Vienna.

* * *

"There isn't anything we can do about it until we know more, and you know that. There's no sense charging in there blindly; we hardly know what the situation is!"

"You remember as well as I do what he was like – do you really think they'll be able to snap him out of that? As far as we're concerned, he's been a raving _lunatic _for how many years? Even you have to admit, no one has _ever_ stayed locked in their own head that long. It was hard enough getting you out of –"

A third voice cut in, sounding uncharacteristically frustrated. "Look, will someone just explain what's going on? All you've done is go on and on like a bunch of old women."

The other two speakers turned their heads and simultaneously glared at the speaker, but even the combined look of disapproval had no effect.

"Come on, Francis. I'm not little anymore." Alfred leaned forward in his seat, expression serious. "You too, Arthur. Your looks of death don't scare me, and I want to know what's going on. I have a right. My brother's involved in this, Lord help him."

Francis sighed, and the look drained away. "America," he said softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "it isn't that simple. These sorts of things don't happen very often, and –"

"I get that he's gone all ancient knightly warrior on us; I'm not as thick as you think I am. I just don't understand what it is the two of you keep arguing about." Alfred fiddled with the frames of his glasses. "Iggy keeps preaching on about it like this is the end of the world, and I just want to know if Matty's in any kind of danger."

Arthur frowned, but his stony expression didn't otherwise waver. "Your points are all moot anyway, Francis," he said, as if he hadn't heard Alfred speak at all. "It's not like any of us have the strength to do _that_ all over again, not to mention there's no hunger for it now. The most we'll do is ruffle a few feathers for a couple decades. Then everyone will forget about it."

"You call what you're suggesting _ruffling a few feathers_?" Francis turned back to England, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair. "England, I think the Blitz jarred a few things deep in your brain – obviously you're not in your right mind. If you think that his brother will _ever_ forget that –"

"It's _reasonable_. None of the news I've heard from Matthew has been good. There's been no improvement, no sign of anything approaching a return to the Gilbert of –"

The French nation's laugh was slightly hysterical. "If you're waiting for _that_ Gilbert to return, I wish you good luck. Our friend the Soviet crushed him long ago, if you'd forgotten that little bit of history. Whatever they manage to bring back, I guarantee it won't be close to what any of us remember."

"You're biased anyway, you –"

The sound of a chair slamming into a wall startled both of them out of their argument. The two nations turned to stare back at America, who was standing by his overturned seat and a newly formed dent in the faux wood paneling.

"Look," he said, voice sharp in the sudden silence. "I don't want to sit through this. I've got work to do. Just answer me a few questions. Is there a chance of this all going south? That it won't work?"

Francis shifted uneasily in his seat, but eventually nodded. "_Oui_. There is always that risk."

Alfred nodded, leaning down to right his chair. "And if it does, will Matthew be in any sort of danger?"

Again, the Frenchman nodded. "…_oui_. He was – very volatile. And if he learns that they have been… sedating him… he will not be… friendly."

"Is there any way of knowing? If he won't ever go back to normal?" The North American nation shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Well… that's the problem, you see? He may take some time to adjust –"

This time it was Arthur who interrupted, his expression still cold. "No. It could be a week, three months, fifteen years – regression doesn't happen often, and we don't understand it well enough to be able to make any guesses."

"And obviously the two of you are trying to figure out what to do with him if he doesn't stop thinking he's in Teutonic times." Alfred matched Arthur's stare without flinching. "Do you really have any idea what you're doing?"

"We haven't reached a definite –"

"There's only one solution, if he remains locked in his bloodthirsty past." Arthur pointedly avoided looking at Francis as he spoke. "Bonnefoy's been a friend of his for a very long time and just doesn't want to admit it."

Alfred shifted. "If he gets to that point, he'll be a danger to my little brother. What's this solution of yours?"

Something dark flashed through the Englishman's eyes, and he lifted a hand to stay France's protests.

"We'll have to kill him."

* * *

"So, you honestly think I can help him?"

A very ragged looking Roderich had arrived on Germany's doorstep not ten minutes ago. Ludwig had wasted no time in getting him inside and caught up on everything that had been happening thus far. Their voices were hushed, trying not to wake Matthew, who had drifted off to sleep an hour ago. Ludwig didn't have the heart to wake him; the Canadian had been running himself off his feet looking after Gilbert _and_ his own country.

"Ludwig?" Austria snapped his fingers in front of the taller nation's face, eyebrows raised. "Are you in there?"

"Wha – sorry." Germany blinked, running his fingers through his hair. "Yes. You can speak Russian, right?"

Roderich grimaced. "Well, yes. My accent is terrible, and it's a bit rusty, but –"

"But you can hold an actual conversation with someone who only understands Russian, yes? I don't care what you sound like."

The shorter of the two offered a shrug. "If that's all you're looking for, then yes. Are you sure he's not just messing around with you? I wouldn't put it past –"

Ludwig's expression was, for a moment, haunted. "I can understand everything he says, but he never once replies to anything we ask him." He paused for a moment. "He looked at me today and called me Holy Rome."

Austria's eyebrows rose again, but he simply pressed his lips into a thin line, and nodded shortly. "Alright, then. Show me. Keep in mind, Ludwig – he may not be pleased to see me."

The look the German man was wearing was not encouraging. "Any sort of reaction would be an improvement."

While they had been talking, Germany had been leading the way up the stairs, towards the closed door at the top of the landing. He put a hand on the knob, and hesitated.

"You'll be – careful with him, Roderich?" His voice was very small for a moment.

Austria considered the blond nation, head slightly tilted. Without replying, he moved forward and pushed Ludwig lightly away from the door. The other did little to resist him. "I will do whatever I need to in order to get through to him, Germany." With that, Roderich seemed to collect himself, and pushed open the door.

It was only when the door was shut again that Ludwig realized that Austria hadn't answered his question.

* * *

He heard the door open, but he couldn't be bothered to turn his head to see who it was. Likely it was that short, quiet mannered person whom he could never really remember, bringing him something to eat.

"You look like shit, Gilbert. I must say, it's an improvement."

The familiar, pretentious voice convinced Gilbert that perhaps struggling into a sitting position was worth the effort. His chest throbbed painfully at the movement, and he felt his lungs tightening in protest, but he managed to fight free of the sheets. After a bout of coughing, he pushed his sweaty bangs back from his forehead and glared at the figure standing at the foot of the bed.

"Fuck you, Roddy," he snapped back, voice rasping.

"Oh, so there is some life in you. I'd heard you were dead." The Austrian considered his nails, looking completely bored with the entire situation. "I suppose I'll have to cancel the celebration, then?"

Gilbert couldn't help but grin, the muscles in his face complaining as they rearranged themselves into the unfamiliar expression. "Like anyone could kill this much awesome. The Russian didn't stand a chance."

"Apparently so. And yet he's walking around, and here you are, lying in a bed like an old woman."

"I am _not_ –" Gilbert leaned forward, the protest catching in his throat and coming out as a wracking cough. He saw Roderich leaning forward in concern out of the corner of his good eye, and managed to wave the other off with his free hand. "_Don't_," he hissed out when he was finished, wiping his mouth on a corner of the bed sheet. "Not you too. Everyone around here treats me like I'm on my deathbed. I've got complete strangers edging around me like they're afraid I'm going to crumble to dust if they _breathe_ too loud."

"Well, you have to admit… you _do_ look like shit." Some of the pretention had gone out of the Austrian's tone, and Gilbert grinned again.

"Ah, see, I knew you cared about me deep down in there. Even you can't resist my charms."

Roderich's only response to that was the turn around and wrench open the shuttered windows to the room. Gilbert let out a strangled yelp as the bright light blinded him, raising his hands to cover his face.

"What the _hell_?" he said, eye watering madly. "Why'd you –"

"You said it yourself. Everyone's acting like you're on your deathbed. So let some light into this room, would you? There's no use locking yourself up in the darkness." Roderich frowned at him.

"Well excuse me, _Austria_, but I can't exactly stand up to open the window myself right now." Gilbert glared at him the best he could with one eye that didn't work, kneading his only useable one with the heel of his hand. It was starting to hurt a bit less now.

"Russia really _did_ do something to you, didn't he? The Gilbert _I_ knew wouldn't be sitting there and whining, he would already be back outside planning his revenge, or something equally as uncouth and stupid." Roderich snorted. "You're pathetic."

"Look who's calling who _pathetic_, you sissy. At least I don't parade around in girly clothing all the time." Gilbert continued to glare.

"Look who can't even get out of _bed_. And you think you're powerful. Feh. You probably _will_ crumble to dust the minute someone touches you."

_That_ did it. He wasn't going to sit down and listen to _Roderich_ of all people tell him that he was being pathetic. With a growl that was more animal than human, Gilbert mustered all of the strength that he could find, and _threw_ the rest of the heavy blankets off of his legs. The rush of cold air that greeted him was almost a relief. With another growl, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and threw his weight onto them in one smooth motion.

For a moment – a glorious moment – Gilbert found himself standing for the first time since waking up in this strange place. He lifted his head to mock Roderich, when his brain finally realized what he had been doing, and the room swirled around him in dizzying whorls. He got the faint impression of movement somewhere in front of him, before the world went black.

"– think you'd stand up, you thick headed –"

"Did, though," Gilbert muttered as the world came back. His head was pounding, but he forced his good eye to flicker open. "Now g'off me."

"I'm hardly _on_ you. If it weren't for me, you'd be on the floor right now."

"Be less embarrassing," the Prussian grumbled, as Austria carefully let him sink back onto the bed, feet still planted firmly on the cool hardwood.

"Gilbert, you've been through a lot. No one's blaming you for needing some time to recover."

Gilbert looked up, then, and tilted his head. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and as he considered Roderich, he wondered when the other had become so adult looking. Surely he had been younger the last time they had talked. "Why can I understand you?" he asked suddenly, wincing as another throb of pain went through his skull. "'veryone else just sounds like – well, _sounds_."

For a moment, the Austrian had a faintly – Gilbert could almost swear it was a _pitying_ look on his pointy features, but it passed before he could really be sure. Eventually Roderich just shrugged. "I couldn't tell you. Maybe whatever it is that lets you understand languages isn't working. You did get whacked around quite a bit, from what I hear. You probably just need some time."

Prussia fixed him with a doubtful stare, but dropped it after a moment. There wasn't any point in worrying about it now – for the moment, he needed to figure out how to get out of here. "Can you at least tell me where I am? _They_ keep on babbling at me, but –" He shrugged helplessly.

"You're at –" Roderich paused. What could he possibly say that would make sense to a man locked away in his past, who had no concept of what _Germany_ was, or who he himself really was. What he had done. "You're safe. Away from the Russian." The only look he got was a withering one. With the scar on one side of his face, it made the Prussian even more imposing than usual.

"You really think that shit's gonna fool –" Gilbert had started forward, eyes narrow, but his words caught in his throat again, and the white haired man leaned forward, coughing violently.

Roderich moved out of pure instinct, moving to grab the other's shoulders, rubbing his back slowly, keeping Gilbert from keeling right over onto the floor. The spell lasted longer than the others had, and the Austrian was beginning to fear that the other would start choking when the shudders running up his back stilled.

"… What the fuck is wrong with me, Roddy?" The Prussian's voice was strangely quiet, with a harsh edge to it.

"Nothing's wrong with you, Gil. You just –" Roderich's mouth tilted down into a tiny frown, not liking the other's tone.

"Just what? Need some _time_? I don't _have_ time. I've got that… damn Lithuanian to deal with… people to pull together, feed… look after, and 'm sure… there's a huge pile of… paperwork tha' I need… t'get on with… burnin'." By the time he was finished speaking, the Prussian's voice was sounding breathy again, and he was reduced to coughing once more.

This time Roderich didn't let him speak again. When the coughing fit had subsided, the Austrian firmly pushed the other back onto the bed, with a promise to annex several regions to the Knight if only he would swing his legs back onto the bed.

"All you need t'do is cluck, Roddy… and you'd be a perfect… mother hen." Gilbert's words were getting fainter, and even Roderich could see the thin film of sweat beading on his upper brow. Ludwig had told him that he had been suffering from a near constant temperature, but –

"Gil, you're burning up." The Austrian held a hand half a foot above the other's forehead, and could still feel the heat rising up.

"Tell me something… I don' know." The Prussian's eyes fixed on the only face that had been remotely familiar to him. The only person who he could understand in this sea of strangers. "I know… they're drugging me," he whispered, as the Austrian leaned in to tug the blankets into position.

Roderich drew back, eyebrow slightly raised. "A bit suspicious, aren't you?"

Those same eyes rolled weakly, and Gilbert managed a snort. The exhaustion had crept up on him quickly. Five minutes ago he had felt slightly better than dead; now all he wanted to do was curl up and disappear. "'M sick, not stupid… I dunno what it is… stronger than the crap… my men use. Don' mind, though… jus'… don' tell them… Roddy."

The Austrian bit his lip, before nodding. The other's eyes were already sliding shut, and he doubted Gilbert saw the gesture anyway. This really wasn't good. If _Gilbert_ of all people was admitting to needing narcotics… _Gilbert_, who he had known to refuse everything but a bottle of brandy before proceeding to sew up his own leg. Who had reveled in the pains from his injuries the way some children reveled in the feel of sunshine on their skin.

He stood there for a long while, staring at Gilbert. The other looked so _lost_ within all of the blankets, his thin frame drowning in the bed. It was a startling contrast to the Gilbert he remembered seeing all those years ago - ragged, yes, and slightly bloody, but not _this_. Not this pale, slowly dying thing. It wasn't the way he had ever pictured the great warrior going. Surrounded by those he loved, unable to remember any of them because he was locked away in his own mind. No, Gilbert Beilschmidt was supposed to have gone out in a blaze of glory, laughing madly all the way.

"He broke you." The words startled Roderich, but he could not deny them. They had handed him to the Russian, and the Russian had found a way to crush the man they had all thought to be incorrigible. AT his sides, the Austrian felt his hands curling into fists. _And I didn't even show up the day they handed him over. I was too busy licking my own wounds to give a damn about him, and when I started to, the Wall had already gone up. It was all I could do to get a scrap of news, and even then it was hardly anything..._

"It's alright, Gil. For once, you can rest." Roderich reached out to brush a stray strand of limp white hair off of his forehead. Never before had that white hair been anything but fierce; now it made the man look ten years older. "We're here for you this time. _I'm_ here for you this time. I owe you enough. He won't come near you ever again... no matter what you've become."

* * *

Matthew was awake by the time Roderich came tripping back down the stairs, his face slightly paler than it had been before. The Canadian made a faint noise of sympathy.

"It's hard, isn't it? He looks so different." He pulled a chair out for the Austrian, but the taller man just shook his head, looking at him curiously.

"I didn't think you knew Gilbert. Before all this, I mean." Roderich glanced sidelong at Ludwig, who was slumped over the kitchen table, eyes half open.

The Canadian nation chuckled in that quiet way of his. "Yeah, it's funny how many people seem to think that. I mean, it wasn't like we were close, but… well, he took notice of me. He was one of the only ones who ever bothered to speak with me." He looked away, abandoning his grip on the back of the chair to start puttering around in the kitchen again. "Does anyone want any breakfast? It's a bit late, but…"

"Breakfast would be nice," Roderich said, slightly wistfully. He had barely touched anything on the way here, but seeing Gilbert – he found himself suddenly drained, and wanting for something to eat.

"Right. Crepes, I think. Pancakes are too heavy –"

Ludwig lifted his head as Roderich finally took the seat, the Canadian's voice fading into the background. "So?"

Roderich sighed, shoulders sagging. "I don't know what to tell you. He knows who I am. He treats me the same way he always has." _Though he hasn't called me Roddy since I took Elizveta into my house all those years ago…_ "But I think he's suffering from more than a cold compress and soup can fix. That cough of his… that isn't natural. When the humans sound like that…"

"They die." Matthew had appeared at his elbow without a sound, placing a bowl of freshly washed berries in the center of the table. "I know. When I was little… a lot of the explorers who came would start coughing like that. Most of them died soon after."

Ludwig shook his head, too exhausted to form a more vehement protest. "Gilbert isn't going to die. He's a nation. He can't."

"What nation, Ludwig?" Roderich's voice was soft, and he wasn't looking at the German. "East Germany ceased to exist when you broke the Wall down. That was all he had left. Without that, there is a chance that he'll…" The word was unspoken, heavy in the air, and none of them wanted to say it.

"Can you stay for a while?" The question came from Ludwig, who wouldn't meet his eyes when Austria looked up. "He's – well, you're the only one who can talk to him. You're the only one he's recognized so far."

"Are you _sure_ he doesn't know who you are? I can't really tell _where_ in the past he's gone and locked himself. Sometime when he was having troubles with Toris, but in those days, there was scarcely a year where those two _weren't_ at odds." Austria reached out and snagged a berry in his long fingers. He considered the fruit for a long moment, before popping it into his mouth.

"He called me the Holy Roman Empire." Ludwig's voice was flat as he stared at the Austrian. Somewhere in the kitchen came the sound of running water.

Austria froze in the middle of swallowing. _That would explain a lot_, he thought to himself. _Strange, how I never noticed the connection before. I suppose we were all so wrapped up in ourselves at the time… there were so many new nations popping up everywhere, it wasn't as if there was time to wonder at the similarities between a dead boy and Gilbert's new toy… _

"Roderich?" The German's voice jerked him out of his thoughts, and the Austrian realized he had been staring.

"Oh –" He hastily swallowed, nearly choking himself. "Sorry. Holy Rome? I wouldn't put much stock in that." _It isn't for me to tell you, Ludwig. _"You do look quite a bit like him, but – well, he died when he was young. He's just a forgotten name in textbooks now."

"Oh." Ludwig stared emptily at the fruit in front of him. He looked like he hadn't eaten in days. "You never did answer my other question."

"Which other – right. Yes, I can stay for a while. I'll just write a letter, and have all my paperwork mailed here for the next little while." Roderich took another berry, but rather than eat it, began rolling it around in his fingers. "Ludwig," he said after a pregnant pause, "are you sure… are you that you got _all_ of him back from the Russian?" He couldn't bring himself to say the huge nation's name.

Ludwig glanced up sharply. "_All_ of him? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I can understand that you missed it… he's barely been awake, and in the dark at that whenever he is…" He had squeezed the berry too hard. The tough skin had split in two, and there was sticky juice running down his fingers now, red and vibrant. "Only… I opened the curtains in his room today. And I couldn't help but notice... his scarred eye is still red. Cloudy, but red. But the other one…" Roderich stared at the crushed berry sitting in his palm, the red pooling around it in a sticky mess. "It's the same colour as the Russian's are."

He could sense the German tensing without ever looking up. "What's that supposed to mean?" the blond ground out, showing life for one of the first times since Roderich had arrived on his doorstep.

"I've known Gilbert a good deal longer than you have. And while he curses just like he always used to, there's something different about him. I didn't need to talk with him for more than a few moments to figure that out. He's missing..."

"He's missing everything that made him Gilbert, Roderich. I know. You think I can't see that? He might not be able to understand _me_, but I can understand _him."_

The Austrian looked up, curling his fingers in a loose cage around the ruined fruit, and shook his head. "The fact that he has been..." _broken _hovered in the air, but Roderich didn't say it, "wasn't what I meant. I know that. I think, perhaps… that the Russian... has done something else. Has found some way around the reunion of East and West that we have yet to notice. I think that whatever came back across the Wall… while it might look like and talk like him... is not entirely Gilbert."

* * *

**_A/N: If you feel like killing me, you're entirely justified. I know I took far too long to get this chapter out. And part of that was reality sticking its greedy little fingers in the way, part of it was also because I just couldn't get back into the mood of writing this._**

**_I don't really know where it's going. I have a vague impression of a final moment that I want to get to, but everything else is going to be trial and error of me hashing my way through._**

**_To those of you who read to the end of this note... thanks for sticking around with me. I really appreciate it. _**

**_If you've read, please review!_**

**_Pheleon._**


	11. Unforeseen Complications

**Soluble Chapter Eleven: Unforeseen Complications**

_I can't escape this hell_

_So many times I've tried_

_But I'm still caged inside_

_Somebody get me through this nightmare_

_I can't control myself_

_So what if you can see the darkest side of me_

_No one will ever change this animal I have become_

_Help me believe it's not the real me_

_- Animal I Have Become, Three Days Grace_

* * *

The cough wrested itself from cracked lips, sounding louder than it should have. It seemed almost to echo in the dark room, though he was almost positive that was just his imagination. Or possibly another hallucination. He had been having a lot of those recently, though he was fairly certain – when he was able to form a coherent thought – that they were in part caused by the fact that he hadn't been eating.

A tiny, painful smile appeared on his face for a moment as he leaned his head on the doorframe. His hand was gripping the wood so tightly he could feel it slowly being crushed under his fingers, and there was a small comfort in that.

At least his strength hadn't abandoned him.

Clenched in his other hand – less tightly, so as not to break it – was a bottle. The clear fluid sloshed in the bottom, nearly finished. He raised it to his lips, taking a long swig, letting it burn a path of bright warmth down his throat and into his stomach. Lately it was the only thing that could inspire that warmth, where in past times it had been enough to see his little family gathered around the fire, laughing at some joke. Even if he hadn't been able to join them without the smiles wiping off their faces, it had been nice to at least _watch_.

The fireplace was dark now, and the room was cold. The window, where he could still remember a little yellow bird entering from in the dead of winter, was cracked and had panes missing. The walls were cracked too, and every now and then a rain of dust came from the ceiling. He took a careful step forward, and when this was achieved successfully, another.

_It isn't fair._

He had been thinking that a lot lately, as his house slowly collapsed around him. As his family left him – took off running and never once looked back. Perhaps they had never really cared. He had gotten that impression, sometimes. And yet, it gnawed at him, ate at his mind into the long hours of the night, as he stared unblinking at whatever happened to be in front of him. He hadn't been sleeping well, as of late.

"Why…" he said, standing in the center of the room, his voice slurred, "Why's it… not fair…" His words trailed off into mumbling, and the tall man took another long swig of his drink, nearly draining the bottle.

_Everyone leaves you_, a tiny little voice whispered in his mind. What cut him the most, though, was that it sounded just like Litva. _And you deserve it. You're a monster, and you know it. You try and pretend otherwise, but deep down inside you _know_. You've always known._

"S'not true," he muttered aloud, waving a hand ineffectively at the air, as if to swat away a fly. "M'not a monster. All I wanted… was a _family_. I _helped_ you. You were… weak on your own. Together… we would've been _strong_, but… but…"

_But you just had to grind us under your boot until we were too broken to be of any use, didn't you? _

"_No_!" The shout was loud, and echoed strangely. It induced another round of coughing, and, bent almost double, the man managed to stagger to the rotting couch by the fire. The couch where his family had once sat, reading or simply talking. It creaked alarmingly as his weight crashed into it.

"No," he said again, softer, not noticing the flecks of blood on his lips from the coughing. "No, I never meant… never meant t'hurt you. Supposed… supposed to make you _stronger_… s'how... _He_ taught me… an'… an' I thought that was what you were _supposed_ to do."

He waited a long moment, draining the last of his bottle, but no reply came. The voice in his head – had it been in his head? – fell silent. Just like the house. The absence of sound had slowly consumed his dwelling as everyone left, until it was so quiet that it was painful, and all he wanted to do was scream just so that there would be something to listen to.

"I tried…" he said at length, his voice strangely timid. "I tried… an' you didn't listen, Litva. You _never_ listened. You _wanted_ me to be the monster." Like a pendulum, his voice swung back to being angry, though it was still quiet, consumed by the sheer size of the silence.

His free hand bunched in his scarf, tugging at the fabric. It had been soft and warm once, but now it was stiff and stained with blood and filth. There was filth everywhere. His hair clung to his scalp, greasy because he had not bothered to wash it. His coat was in tatters, hanging around his body like a great sheet, looking too big for a man who had lost a great deal of weight.

"_ANSWER ME!_" His voice came in a sudden burst, sounding for a moment like it once had.

There was another long pause, in which his words hung in the air, and just when he was about to shout again, a long low groan filled the room. He blinked, confused for a moment, until wit a resounding crash, the couch beneath him gave way, the wood breaking under the strain of holding him up. He crashed to the ground amidst a cloud of splinters, dust, and the stuffing from threadbare cushions.

He sat there for a long while, in the middle of a couch that had just broken in half, expression faintly surprised. His shoulders finally began to shake, and from his lips escaped a deranged sound that, had it been less raw and broken, might have been a laugh. It went on and on and on because it was just so deliciously _ironic_ that he couldn't stop.

Long after the dust had settled around him, the sound continued. He drained the last of his bottle and nearly choked on it because he couldn't stop laughing. He wasn't even aware of the bottle rolling from his fingers to smash upon the bare floor, or of the faint sound of another wall collapsing in some distant room. He didn't hear the sound of the wind picking up outside, nor of the way that it started gusting in through the broken windows.

Ivan Braginski wasn't aware of the fact that, for the first time in a long time, tears were running down the sides of his face. He didn't notice either, when his broken laughter changed into ragged, raw sobs.

* * *

"This is completely demeaning, Roderich." There was a faint whine in his tone that made the Austrian's lips twitch. "I'd rather lie in bed all day. This just makes me look like an invalid." The Prussian man crossed his arms over his thin chest, mismatched eyes narrowed.

"Gilbert, you already look like an invalid. Everyone in this house, including the dogs, could probably knock you over by breathing too hard." He was moving around the room, pulling open the curtains – which the white-haired occupant always closed – to let in some sunshine.

"Look, even the weather agrees with me." Gilbert gestured to the sky, which, while still somewhat sunny, was gradually being taken over by clouds that promised rain. "I won't do it."

Roderich turned, eyebrows raised. "Gilbert Beilschmidt," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Stop whining. It's embarrassing, coming from you. Do you _want_ what's left of your muscles to disappear? You don't want to be an invalid, but you'd doing an excellent job of trying to be just that."

"Where's Antonio?" Was the sullen response, though the Prussian did swing his legs carefully over the edge of the bed. "He's nicer than you are."

"I _did_ attempt to explain that when I walked in, but someone wouldn't shut up –"

Gilbert tilted his head, a grin appearing on his face. For a moment he looked almost like he was back to normal. "Roderich Edelstein. Stop bitching. It's embarrassing having to listen to you."

The Austrian huffed, but didn't deign to reply. "Here," he said shoving the item that Gilbert was so reluctant to accept into his hands.

"Anyway, you were saying about Antonio?" Gilbert asked, his eyebrows rising. The movement made the scar over his blind eye stretch, and he absently itched at it, trying to delay the moment where he would have to stand up.

The Austrian straightened a corner of the duvet on the albino's bed, and sighed. "Yes, he's here. In the kitchen and making a general nuisance of himself, I'm sure. He's been all but frothing at the mouth since he got here this morning."

Gilbert's eyes flicked to the window again, then back to his keeper. "He's been here since the morning? Edelstein, it's the afternoon. Why didn't you wake me up sooner?"

Roderich shrugged in reply. "I wanted to delay the inevitable argument that we just had. Besides, you need your sleep. The Spaniard can wait as long as he needs to."

The Prussian made a rude noise, but didn't try and argue. Rather, he started to push himself off of the bed. While his strength was slow in returning, it _was_ coming back. He still suffered from bouts of coughing that made him feel like his lungs were being shredded inside, but Gilbert no longer felt exhausted every time he tried to move an arm. His sleep was lighter these days as well, and he had a sneaking suspicion that someone had been giving him something to keep him under – what it had been, he couldn't imagine.

"This is demeaning," Gilbert repeated, grimacing. "I can't believe that I've been reduced to this."

"Oh, stop complaining, or I'll tell Spain that you don't want to see him," Austria said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. One could only take so much of a sick Gilbert before one started to feel ill as well.

The other man glared. "You wouldn't dare," Gilbert growled. The sudden ferocity in his voice was rather ruined by his gaunt, pale features and the clothing that was practically falling off of his skinny frame.

Roderich rolled his eyes. "You'd be surprised. I'm guaranteed to beat you down the stairs, so I'm sure I can arrange to have him gone by the time you get down there…"

Gilbert moved with surprising speed – relative to his current condition, of course – and was at the door before Austria had even straightened his coat. "I could beat you with two broken legs and a collapsed lung, Austria, and don't you forget it."

"What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of your wheezing." A moment later the brunette was forced to duck as something cracked off the wall just above his head. "Alright, alright, I give," he said quickly, lest the next strike actually connect. "Maybe giving you that wasn't a good idea… all it does is extend your reach."

The Prussian grinned like a madman. "I'd kill to have a sword, but I suppose this will have to do for now," he conceded. His eyes wandered back to the open door, and the landing and stairs beyond it.

He hadn't been off of this floor since he had woken up – though he had been allowed to shuffle around the rooms up here with some freedom. So long as he had one of his nursemaids tagging along – Roderich, the nation he was told was something like Kannada, or the man who looked like Holy Rome but wasn't. He far preferred the former two; Roderich might have been a prissy aristocrat, and the other nation rarely said anything that he could understand, but at least neither of them looked at him with an expression that looked like a kicked dog when they thought he wasn't looking. It was downright unsettling, and he had taken to avoiding the imposing blonde nation as much as someone who tired quickly and was largely bedridden could.

"Gil, are you alright?" The Austrian's voice in his ear made the white haired nation jump slightly, and he glanced over with a vaguely startled expression. Roderich was staring at him with some concern, eyebrows raised. "If you're too tired, we can do this another time. Or I can have Antonio come up here…"

"Wha? No, no." Gilbert was quick to recover. "Sorry. I was thinking."

A small smile appeared on the other's face. "Heaven forbid," Roderich said, though behind his glasses his eyes remained concerned.

"Oh, shut up," Gilbert muttered under his breath, aiming a kick at the Austrian. The movement unbalanced him, and he had to catch himself on the doorframe with his free hand.

The other man just rolled his eyes, and sidestepped Gilbert, heading towards the stairs without another word. After a moment spent nursing his wounded pride – though he was beginning to realize at this point his pride wasn't even worth salvaging – Gilbert shuffled after.

* * *

"Please, Mr. Carriedo, calm down. He'll be down in his own time." Matthew, leaning against the kitchen counter, was watching the Spaniard pace around and around the kitchen table – and had been doing so for the past forty minutes.

"I told you, Canada, just call me Antonio. You're making me feel old." The nation in question, while not looking the least bit anxious, was revealing all through his body language. It wasn't just the pacing. He kept glancing at the clock, as if he could somehow make time go faster by sheer willpower. Every now and then he would start gnawing on his thumbnail, something that made Matthew want to smack him, just like England had done to him in order to break him of that particular habit.

"Sorry," Matthew said, toying with a lock of his hair. Spain's nervousness was starting to rub off on him, though he couldn't say why. It _had_ been a while since Austria had gone up to fetch Gilbert.

"What're the chances of him being able to understand me?" The question cut through Canada's own silent worry, and he glanced up. Antonio had, mercifully, stopped pacing – though the way he was drumming his fingers on the back of his chair promised to become equally as irritating.

Matthew shrugged, and wished Germany hadn't gone out to walk the dogs. He didn't like answering questions that only made the Spaniard more agitated. "As far as we've been able to tell, he doesn't understand German, English, or French, aside from a few words. The only thing he _does_ respond to currently is Russian, which is why Mr. Edelstein is the one who has the most contact with him right now."

"So basically I shouldn't get my hopes up, _si_?" The brunette sighed, and stuck his hands in his pockets, glancing at the clock with what he evidently thought was a subtle movement.

Matthew let out a sigh, and shook his head. "I wouldn't, if I were you. It's best to take things in… small steps, with him. He's still a bit – er – fragile, I suppose."

Antonio snorted, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "I've heard Gilbert called a lot of things, but _fragile_ was never one of them." The smile turned into a grimace. "I suppose I should be happy just to have him alive, what with the dissolution of East Germany and all."

Canada winced slightly. _Dissolution_ was a word that was almost painful. "He's still here," he said, voice a little too firm. "And that means that somewhere, there's still a part of him."

"But in whose hands is that part, exactly?" Spain's eyes were dark and very old as he met Canada's stare. Both of them looked away a few moments later, neither wanting to mention the unspoken name hanging in the air between them.

"Are you still down there?" The welcome voice of Roderich broke through the suddenly awkward silence between the two nations, and both of them pounced on the chance to focus their attention and thoughts elsewhere.

"_Si_, Austria. And getting impatient. Is Gilbert going to grace us with his presence anytime soon?" It was as if he had never uttered his ominous question. In the space of a few moments, the Spaniard had cleared his expression, schooling its features into his usual cheerful expression.

Roderich appeared at the base of the stairs, and half smiled. There were circles under his eyes, and Canada felt a pang of sympathy for the Austrian nation; he had been pouring everything into looking after the albino, and it was finally beginning to show. Matthew's eyes flicked back to Antonio, but the Spaniard was ignoring both of them, his eyes riveted to the slight figure that had appeared on the stairs just behind Roderich.

* * *

The Prussian looked nothing like how Spain remembered him. While Gilbert had always been pale – his white hair helping to further wash his features out – he looked positively ghost-like. As if the slightest puff of air would knock him over. He had always been wiry too, but even that seemed to have melted away, leaving behind bones with skin stretched over them. And _stretched _was the right word – Gilbert's cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken. All of the bones in his hand stood out, like tiny accusations.

"The last time somebody stared at me that intensely, Antonio, it was a beautiful woman, I spent the night having passionate –"

Well, at least his personality hadn't changed. But despite the habitual, mischievous smile that always appeared on his face whenever in Gilbert's company, Spain couldn't help his glance moving to the thing that Gilbert was holding.

"Why're you holding a cane?" The question slipped out before he could stop himself, and he began internally hitting himself the moment he had asked it. What a stupid question. It wasn't hard to guess _why_ the other was using a cane, one simply had to look at him.

Gilbert's expression was filled with something unreadable, and he turned his head to stare at Roderich, eyebrows raised.

"He wants to know why you've got a cane," Roderich said quietly, shifting slightly.

Antonio felt a moment of irritation. "He's standing right there, Roderich, I'm sure he can hear me –"

"Spain." Canada's voice was soft. "It's not that he can't hear you. He doesn't understand what you're saying. Remember? The only thing he can speak right now is Russian." Matthew moved forward and touched him lightly on the shoulder – an apology and an encouragement all in one, and promptly left the room.

_Shit. _Of course. Spain looked back at Gilbert, who had arranged his features into a smile. But Antonio knew him almost as much as he knew himself, and could see the pain in his eyes, mismatched as they were.

"My awesome finally got too large for this body to contain, and it's weighing on me," The Prussian supplied in answer. The smile flickered slightly. "Well, that, and I tend to fall over if I walk around without support, and I didn't want to have to cling to Roderich here."

"Thank god for that," Austria muttered under his breath – also in Russian, Spain noted, now that he was listening for it – with a faint smile. Gilbert rolled his eyes at Roderich, and Antonio felt a pang of sadness liberally mixed with jealousy. The Austrian was sharing in something that he, despite having been friends with Gilbert for far longer, could not.

* * *

If Antonio thought he was being subtle then he was an idiot, Gilbert decided. He always _had_ been able to read the Spaniard like a book, and now was no different. The Prussian understood his frustration; he could relate to the frustration of being unable to communicate with those around him. And he could practically feel the jealousy oozing off of the brunette as Roderich joked with him and he responded – something that he and Antonio had done many times.

He wasn't pleased with this predicament either, but he supposed that he had gotten somewhat used to having a translator. It was still fucking _weird_; he wasn't sure if Roderich was editing what the others were telling him, and he still wasn't happy about the situation – nor did he understand why everyone around him was suddenly speaking in languages he didn't know – but he had become used to it.

Gilbert shivered slightly at that realization. He sent a silent prayer to whoever happened to be listening that this wouldn't last forever. That some time soon, he'd be able to joke with his Spanish friend without the nuances of speech being lost in someone else's translation.

"Are you going to get off the stairs anytime soon, or are you content to stand there all day?" Roderich's voice cut through his musings, and Gilbert blinked, realizing that he had been standing there like an idiot this whole time.

"Sorry," he muttered, surprised enough to actually apologize. The white haired man carefully maneuvered himself onto the next stair. They were an obstacle that he hadn't had to face in a while, and they were harder to get down than he wanted to admit – and he didn't even want to think about how he was going to get back upstairs.

But as his foot landed on the next one, he was struck by a strange sensation of something being wrong. Despair as painful as a knife in the ribs suddenly consumed him, and he stumbled. Both of the men below him started forward as he barely managed to cling to his balance. There was a clatter as the cane fell from numb fingers. His eyes widened, and his free hand reached up to touch his chest.

"Gil, are you –" His head snapped up. That hadn't been Roderich's voice. He stared at Spain for a moment, mouth opening slightly.

"Stop… lying… doesn't… you… help… please…" Gilbert managed to gasp, barely comprehending that the words that had slipped out of his mouth sounded completely alien before another spasm of anguish washed through him, and his whole heart seized violently. _Not again_, he managed to think desperately, before his body, still weak, simply gave out and sent him crashing to the floor.

* * *

The moment he drew level with the house, Germany knew something wasn't right. Matthew was standing on the porch, tugging on his curl and looking up and down the street with a distraught look on his face. The dogs started straining on their leashes, barking furiously. Ludwig felt the colour drain from his face as he stared wordlessly at Matthew.

"Ludwig," the other said, voice very soft. "We don't know what happened. One minute he was fine, if a bit shaky, and the next –"

The German nation started up the steps to his house like he was a stranger. "Is he alright?" There was no need to ask whom this was about.

Canada shrugged and fiddled with his glasses, nervous. "Well he… he hasn't woken up yet. Spain and Austria moved him to the living room, and he's breathing, but… it was strange."  
Part of him relaxed at hearing that. At least his brother was still alive. Seeing that expression on Matthew's face had nearly given him a heart attack. "Strange how? Actually, don't answer that. I want to see him." The blond man pushed past Canada and through the door, the dogs tripping over each other in their haste.

"That husky is Gilbert's, isn't it?" Austria was leaning on the inside of the doorframe leading to the living room, watching as Ludwig pried his boots off with his feet, still holding leashes.

Ludwig glanced up, a faintly pained expression on his face. "No, it isn't. It was only a dog, Austria. They don't have the lifespan that we do." He wiped his face blank, shaking his head slightly, as he pulled the four dogs towards the kitchen. He wrapped their leashes around one of the table legs, pushing a large water bowl within their reach. "Don't go trying to drag that table anywhere," he told them sternly, though their attention was focused on the water, straightening to look at Roderich directly.

The other nation was giving him that look again; the one that was pity and respect all wrapped up in one. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Though I admire your persistence. I wouldn't be able to… well, I wouldn't be able to keep doing it."

"Doing what?" Ludwig asked, eyebrows raised. Right now he would rather be looking in on his brother, not talking about his pets.

"Getting new ones." Austria gestured halfheartedly at the animals, their tails wagging furiously. The husky looked up at that exact moment, tongue hanging out and bright blue eyes wide and staring. "Isn't it hard, having to watch them die?"

Ludwig shrugged. "It's not easy, but you learn to live with it," he said quietly. "Looking after them was one of the things that kept me going. It showed me that there was still some good left in this world. That there was something that could look at me and not remember all my faults. Something that loved me for being me." He coughed into his sleeve, embarrassed at having said so much, and pushed past Austria. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to check on my brother."

"He remembered," Austria murmured as Ludwig passed. The German man froze where he stood, eyes wide. "Just before he lost conscious. Antonio said something to him in Spanish, and he responded. In German."

"Are you sure?" Ludwig's voice was suddenly hoarse. "Absolutely sure?"

"I know what German sounds like, Ludwig, regardless of the automatic translation. And that was definitely German." Roderich laid a hand on Ludwig's shoulder. "Don't get your hopes up, though. I doubt that it was –"

But Ludwig's expression was enough to stall anything else he might have wanted to say. For a moment the Germanic nation looked so singularly _happy_ that Austria's warning died in his mouth, and he dropped his hand.

"It doesn't matter how long he managed it, Roderich," Ludwig said, moving to cross into the living room. "Because he did. And that means that _my_ Gilbert is still somewhere inside that head."

* * *

_He decided that he didn't like the Empire. He couldn't stand watching the monster that wore his face masquerade in front of everyone he had ever given a damn about. And it _was_ a masquerade; unlike the hapless individuals in Ludwig's house, _he_ was privy to the thoughts boiling just under the face that bantered with Austria, that looked with such puzzlement whenever Germany forgot that the Empire didn't know who he was…_

_ It was absolutely maddening. _

_ He couldn't remember consciously letting this other side of him have control. All he knew was that while he was aware of everything that his body was doing, he was powerless to prevent anything. As far as he knew, the presence controlling his body wasn't aware of his existence, which would explain why the Empire didn't remember as much as he did. _

I might as well be back with the damn Russian_, he muttered to himself – though how he managed to without a mouth was beyond him. He had no real sense of self here… wherever here was, anyway, because he didn't know the answer to that either. _At least with him I had something to verbally abuse_…_

_ He shifted, or at least imagined he shifted, seeing as he lacked anything that could be considered a body, when it hit him. Their shared heart – though it wasn't really theirs, he thought nastily – throbbed painfully. There was a brief pause, and then like a tidal wave breaking on the shore, despair consumed him. _

_ But while the personality in control of their body was completely immobilized by the sudden sensation, he had no real body with which to feel. It was a brief window, but a window nonetheless. He felt the momentary weakness of the other presence, and lunged forward, shoving the Empire to the side even as their body stumbled forward on the steps._

_ He heard Antonio say something, but it didn't register. All he knew was that they needed to _know_ that he was still here, that he was trying to wrestle control of his body back… but he had forgotten, through the years, how to operate his own mouth._

_ He's lying to all of you! His thoughts are filled with blood, and he doesn't care about anyone! Help me, please! _

_The words came out garbled, the sentence he had been trying to say lost as he struggled to maneuver the suddenly intricate muscles of a physical form he had not used in over a decade. He saw their eyes widen, a moment before he felt the Empire shift in the back of his head, startled and angry. He felt their body slam into the stairs, heard the panicked cries from the other nations, before the Empire shoved him out of control and back into the darkness._

_ Back into hell._

* * *

"I think we need to consider it, at the very least." Roderich's voice was tight. "I know none of you like the idea, but –"

"I don't let anyone go over there. He's better off rotting in his own misery. I won't stoop to that level." Ludwig's voice was equally as tight. The German nation paused to take a deep gulp of the beer in his hand.

The four nations were gathered in the living room, having moved an unconscious Gilbert back to his room after he had collapsed. Matthew had long since fallen asleep, worn out from the day. His head had fallen onto Spain's shoulder. For his part, Antonio was sitting as still as he could, not wanting to disturb the Canadian who according to Germany hadn't slept in days. Ludwig was sitting in one of the chairs, a husky lying across his feet, and a frustrated expression on his face. Roderich was perched awkwardly on the edge of the smaller couch, twirling his wine glass absently in one hand.

"Maybe Austria is right," Antonio ventured into the silence. "I am sure if Gilbert would want us to do anything that could help him." He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Besides, it isn't as if Russia is at the peak of his power. He had faded considerably. His empire has collapsed."

"He's still a lunatic," Germany muttered, glaring at Spain. He had hoped that the easygoing nation would have taken his side in this manner.

"_Regardless_ of his personality, I think we need to talk to him. I warned you that what came over the Wall might not have been entirely your brother. His mental state is only the most obvious of what could be many problems." Austria leaned forward, heedless of the wine that sloshed out of his glass. "You need to push your personal dislike aside. Keep in mind that _we don't know_ what happened to Gilbert while he was over there."

"_Si. _I agree with Roderich." Spain sighed softly. "And I think that this conversation had best be happening soon. We may be running out of time."

That caused raised eyebrows from both Germany and Austria. "And why is that?" the former nation asked, leaning back in his chair and taking another swig of beer.

"I have been hearing some disturbing whispers from Francis. He did not seem to be able to say much, but suffice to say, our dear friend Arthur is up to something.

There was a long silence filled only with Matthew's faint snores as the three conscious nations considered this latest obstacle.

"That isn't good," Austria said at length, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Those two were never on very good terms. But I'd like to know why Francis knows enough to be able to give you advance warn –"

The aristocrat's words trailed off, as all of their eyes went to the ceiling, and the room directly above them. There was another long pause, and then –

"Did anyone else hear that?" Antonio's voice was cautious, but he needn't have bothered saying anything – Germany bolted from his chair with the sound of a dropped bottle and a yelping dog, with Austria close on his heels.

The Spaniard started to get up, but heard a faint snort directly in his ear. The Canadian nation slumped on his shoulder had unconsciously wrapped his arms around one of Spain's, and was holding it in a death grip as he slept. Antonio bit his lip, looking towards the stairs the other two nations had just raced up, before sighing in a resigned sort of way.

"I suppose we'll wait here, then, won't we, Matthew? I'm sure it's nothing." He let out a strangled little laugh. He had been working to keep it together ever since seeing his usually boisterous friend come down the stairs, needing the support of a cane simply to stand up. "I'm sure it's nothing," he muttered again, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to fool.

* * *

_Shit. Stairs hurt._

He cracked his eyes open once he was positive there was no one in the room – an unheard of occurrence since he had woken up here all those days ago. There was always _someone_ in the chair next to the bed, either half asleep of more likely staring at him like a hawk. Gingerly he pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the throbbing in his head for the moment.

Alone for the first time in what felt like forever.

Despite himself, the Empire felt something like a grin curl his lips. _Finally_. He had been growing tired of putting on a show for everyone around him. It was difficult containing his aggressive needs when confined to such a tiny house. Before he had crossed over the Wall, there had been an outlet. There had _always_ been something to fight, someone to _hurt_. He had known that the one he had been hunting had been somewhere nearby.

Carefully he slid out from under the covers, and planted his feet on the floor. His head was throbbing something fierce where it had connected with the stairs, but he pushed the physical discomfort to the back of his mind. His cane was resting just beside the bed, within easy reach, but the Empire sneered at it. With one movement he was standing, without any trace of the shakiness he had displayed earlier in the day.

"So easy to fool. I expected Roderich to pose more of a challenge. Pity." He knew the Austrian was up to something anyway. They weren't on very friendly terms normally, and all of this bantering and mothering had baffled the Empire. Of course, he had gone along with it, seeing as that was apparently what was expected, but no more.

He reached out with one pale hand and grabbed the cane, considering it as he carefully moved around the bed. Though he was no where near as weak as he had let the rest of the household believe, he knew his limits. If he strained himself, the Empire knew that he wouldn't recover quickly.

"And yet…" He opened his hands, and then let his fingers curl back over the cane. There had been something, some_one_, else. Back on the stairs. He remembered feeling an abrupt loss of control before his head had connected with the stairs. The Empire had been aware of it before, on some level. He knew that the other presence was responsible, in part, for the way he had understood things on the other side of the Wall so quickly. Things that had never before been a part of his world.

"And yet the world has changed, hasn't it?" He wandered to the window, tapping the glass lightly with the cane. Below he could see a quiet street, grey clouds filling the sky, dirty slush piled up on the sidewalks. "Somewhere along the line, the world changed."

The boots felt comfortable around his feet, their worn leather like an old friend. The Empire considered them for a moment. They had been with him since he had found himself in that cold little cell with the man he had spent his existence hating.

"But there's still one thing you owe me, isn't there?" His words were a soft murmur, his breath fogging up the glass that he had moved back to. There was a coat around his shoulders now, liberated from the closet at the far end of the room. His free hand reached up and rested over his heart. Even through the shirt and coat, he imagined that he could feel the scars.

"I want my heart back, you bastard," the Empire said to the air. "And I'm going to rip it from your chest while you watch, just like you did me." His hand wandered back to the cane again, and the Empire's mismatched eyes wandered down to glare at it. A symbol of weakness. Of the farce that he had endured all this time simply to regain enough strength to fulfill his desires.

_Crack. _

The Empire considered the two halves of the cane in his hand, the ends ragged and splintered. His eyes were empty as he let the shorter of the pieces fall to the floor, the carpet muffling the sound. They remained empty as they flicked back up to consider the window in front of him, and the drop to the ground below.

Even as a sickening smile curled across his lips, even as the Empire raised the longer end of the cane and swung as hard as he could, his eyes remained empty. Dead.

Merciless.

* * *

"I don't understand. Why wait until _now_ of all times?" Germany's voice was strangled as he stood rooted to the floor.

Roderich sighed, rising out of his crouch, a short piece of wood in one hand. "I couldn't tell you," the Austrian nation said, turning what was left of Gilbert's cane over in his hands.

"You knew him back when he was… well, when he was like this." Ludwig ran a hand through his hair. His features seemed to have aged years in the last few minutes, and Roderich couldn't blame him. "Where could he be going?"

Austria sighed. "I wish I could tell you. But the more I think about it, the more it seems that he isn't acting the way he should be."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ludwig moved forward at last, picking up a jagged piece of glass from the window ledge.

Roderich poked a few shards of glass with the splintered end of the wood. "Well… if he were _purely_ the Empire… why would none of this frighten him? The technology. He would never have seen a stove before, and yet it didn't bother him. This is completely unfamiliar territory, not to mention unfamiliar faces surround him, and yet he didn't run until now. The food is different, the entire _world_ is different, and yet none of it fazed him." The Austrian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This… regression isn't common, so not much is known about it. But I would hazard to say that the Empire is somehow unconsciously drawing on some of the knowledge that the present-day Gilbert had."

Ludwig took a step away from the window, still holding the shard he had picked up. "I was wondering about that myself," he mumbled absently, eyes still fixed on the road outside, as if he could somehow see where his brother might be going. "In that case… where exactly is he heading?"

Austria, whose mind was already working to figure out how they were going to get the white haired man back safely, glanced up at the German nation, and then to the ragged glass around the edges of the window. Even from here, it was possible to see the blood staining the edges of some of the pieces, where Gilbert had wrenched his shoulders through. He reached up with his free hand to pull a scrap of bloodied fabric off the edge of one.

"That's what we need to figure out," he murmured, as the fragment of cloth fell apart in his fingers, the fibres falling between them to drift to the floor. "I just hope we get there first."

* * *

**_A/N: _**Also known as the chapter where the Empire decides craziness suits him and goes off on a merry adventure by himself.

So. Yet another painfully slow update from me. I'm happier with this chapter than the last, though it didn't end up going where I thought it would. (_Damn it, Empire, you weren't supposed to go running off yet!) _

I also realized something a while back. Until very recently, this hasn't been fun to write. The last few chapters... I've written them because I've felt obligated to, not because I'm passionate about the story. That came back somewhat, and is why I was able to get this out when I did, but... I don't know what it is. It isn't writers block, more of a slump. I'll keep slogging through until I recover that passion, though. I **will **finish this story.

Note that the Prussian Empire has two mindsets. His fake "I'm a normal, sane human being," during which I will refer to him as Gilbert/Prussia, and his actual, crazier personality, during which he will be referred to as the Empire. A lot of people are feeling sorry for him right now, and I just want to remind you that England, while being a dick, has good reason to think he'll go on a murderous rampage.

A special thanks to **Hikou no Kokoro**, whose awesome review reminded me not to forget some of the loose ends that I've left while writing this monster. I don't think I managed cure my addiction to dashes, but I'm working on it!

And to all of you Russia fans, no, he won't stay whiny and drunk forever. The former, at least, isn't a permanent condition.

Finally, this chapter is dedicated to someone that I hurt recently. I'm sorry in more ways than I can say, but I do think it was for the best, and I sincerely hope that our friendship won't suffer for it.

If you'd read, please review!

- _Pheleon_


	12. Decisions, Blackmail, and Ponies?

**Soluble Chapter Twelve: Difficult Decisions, Blackmail, and... Ponies?**

"_[There will] come a time when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy."_

_- Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

The two young men had been following the figure in front of them for the past few blocks. The taller of the two, a sharp-faced young man with red hair, chewed absently on a thumbnail as they followed, half a block behind.

"I don't like this," he muttered uneasily to his companion. "You said he was old. And those clothes don't look like they're worth much. I bet he doesn't have anything valuable."

"Shut up, Markus," the shorter growled in an undertone. "We've almost got 'im to where we want him. An' he _looked_ old. His hair was white, an' he had some kind of cane. An' he's got an old military uniform under that coat. It'll be worth something."

"He's a _veteran_? Erik, we can't rob a _veteran _–"

"I said _shut up_," Erik said, tone dangerous. "Come on, let's pick up the pace a bit. He's almost at the alley we want."

For a moment, it looked as though Markus was going to object, but he closed his mouth after a moment and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, scowling. He ran his fingers over the smooth handle of his switchblade, as if to reassure himself. The two young thieves increased their pace slightly, eyes fixed on the only other person walking down the lonely street.

When the man with white hair paused directly in front of the mouth of the alley they had been herding him towards, the shorter of the two smiled. Markus, on the other hand, was not so confident.

"I don't like this," he said again as they paused for a moment, lurking next to a tree on the boulevard. "It's like he knows we're following him."

"How could he know that? I saw his face when I marked 'im, an' he's probably half blind."

"Blind doesn't mean oblivious," the taller said under his breath, though he did nothing more to protest the fact. He watched the man stand in front of the alley for a moment, and then sucked in his breath slightly as he _turned and walked into it._

Beside him, Erik chuckled softly. "Idiot. There's no other way out of there. Come on, let's do this." With a pointed glare at Markus, the dark haired young man started off towards the alley. After a moment's hesitation the redhead followed, pulling his switchblade out, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling curling in his gut.

* * *

"… and then I was like, totally prepared to come get you, but…"

Lithuania didn't pause in his paperwork as the other nation continued to talk, though he did take a moment to shift the phone to his other shoulder. It wasn't as if the other nation actually expected him to contribute; Poland was quite happy talking to himself, so long as the Baltic nation on the other end made a noise of agreement every once and a while.

"That's nice," Lithuania said, smiling despite himself. Though he had long ago learned to tune most of what Poland said out, it was still nice to just hear his voice. It had been a long time since he had been able to pick up a phone and call whomever he wanted without fearing the consequences.

"Are you, like, even listening to me? You're doing paperwork again, aren't you, Liet? I knew it!"

Lithuania rolled his eyes, though Poland couldn't see it. "I do have a lot of it to get through, Felkis," he said teasingly, signing off on yet another document. "Getting the rest of the world to recognize my independence is taking a lot more effort than it should."

"Pah, they're just stupid. You haven't been living with him since, like, the Wall fell." Toris could almost see the blonde nation lying on his bed, kicking his feet in the air while he was talking.

Lithuania sighed. "Their relative intelligence aside, the paperwork is mandatory. My boss wants it done last week, and there's still repairs to be done, and Latvia and Estonia to keep track of…"

"How'd you end up their babysitter anyway?" Poland laughed. "They have their own houses, don't they?"

Toris put down his pen, leaning back in his chair. "Well, I _am_ the oldest, so it makes sense, and I'm not about to kick them out. It's nice, having people around."

Felkis snorted, and Toris caught the sound of something hitting the floor. "You've been living with them for, like, fifty years, Liet. Haven't you all gotten sick of each other? 'Specially Estonia, he makes dry toast look exciting."

The Baltic nation shrugged, before remembering once again that he was on the phone, and that physical gestures were somewhat pointless. "Neither of them have said anything, but I think they just don't want to be alone. We aren't related by blood, but…" He paused, chewing absently on a thumbnail. "Well, it's nice to have people around the house, and they do pull their weight. We all just have so many other things to deal with right now…"

"Hey, if you, like, want to get rid of them for a few days, you can always send them over to me! The pink in my house is starting to look completely _un-_fabulous_**,**_ and I can't do the whole thing over myself."

Toris laughed softly. "I'm not hiring them out to you, Felkis," he said, leaning back further in his chair. "If anything, they're going to be painting _my_ house; it could use a new coat of paint!"

There was a pause on the phone, filled with the same sound of something hitting the floor, and then – "It's nice to hear you laugh again." The cross-dressing nation's voice was soft. "I thought you'd forgotten how." Another pause, in which Toris wasn't really sure what to say. "But you're right," Feliks continued a moment later, apparently unbothered by the silence. "Get them to paint _your_ house. Your walls always _were_ totally tacky, and I doubt the years have improved them, unless they, like, rotted all the paint off."

"Hey," Lithuania said in mock anger, privately glad that Poland had changed the subject. As airheaded as the blonde nation was, he showed insight at the best times. "Don't go beating on my walls! They were the height of fashion when I redid them last!"

"Which only, like, dates you even more, revealing you for the moldy old man you are!" There was a cackle from the other end. "Isn't that right, Princess? Is Liet an old man? Yes he _is_. _Yes he is_." Toris swore he heard a whicker in the background.

"Felkis, do you have a _horse_ inside you house?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Princess isn't a _horse_," the Polish man said, sounding almost offended that Toris didn't know that. "Princess is a Shetland pony, and she's a _beautiful_ one at that, aren't you? You're the most gorgeous pony in the world!" There was another sound of what Toris could only assume was pony for yes.

"You will never cease to amaze me, Poland," he said, happier than he could remember feeling since this century had begun.

"I should hope not," Felkis said, sounding even more offended at the suggestion that he could ever be anything less than wildly impressive. "But I guess I should let you, like, get back to your paperwork. Even if it's _boring_. Hey, there's an idea! Why don't you make Estonia do it? Since they're both, like, totally boring, he'd probably _love_ it!"

"Because Estonia has his own paperwork to do, and I don't need to add mine to his. And last time I checked, my boss still required _my_ signature on official papers, not his." Toris leaned forward again, reaching for his pen. Already he could feel his fingers and shoulders aching. "Hey, maybe I'll drop by for a visit when all of this gets sorted out. I'd like to see you again."

"That'd be, like, completely awesome!" He could practically _hear_ Poland's smile. "I'll go easy on you, old man, don't worry!"

"Oh, shut up," Toris teased. "But seriously, thanks for calling. You're a godsend."

"Well, _duh_. As if I didn't already know that. But you're totally welcome."

"I'll talk to you later, then."

"Totally. Later, Liet!"

There was a click in Lithuania's ear, and the line went dead. Sighing to himself, he replaced the phone in its cradle. His pen was in his hand, but all of a sudden he didn't feel much like filling out forms and reading minute print. There were so many _details_ to look after when it came to getting the rest of the world to acknowledge him.

"To think I thought it would be as easy as just coming home." Toris put the pen down, and stood. Perhaps now would be a good chance to grab something to eat. It was already getting late outside, and if he delayed much longer, he would probably forget entirely.

The house was quiet around him, despite the other two nations occupying it, and Lithuania wondered if Latvia weren't already asleep. He was the youngest, and had taken the journey from Russia the hardest. For a while, both Lithuania and Estonia had feared that his coughing had been more than a simple cold. But it had passed, and the little blonde nation was as active as ever, though the stress of putting their lives back together tended to tire him out.

Toris couldn't help but smile at the thought of his adopted family. It was true, what he had said to Poland. They weren't related by blood, and even their customs were quite different. But maybe, he thought, maybe that wasn't what made them family. They had survived something together, and in surviving it, had become close enough for them to qualify as family, at least in their minds.

"Now the next problem is getting the rest of the world to admit that we're individual nations again," Toris grumbled to himself good-naturedly. It was a bit of a sore point, considering he had once been a fairly strong power himself, but it wasn't worth getting truly angry over. It would happen in time.

He stepped into the darkened kitchen, listening to the soft hum of the refrigerator before flicking on the light. It was a small room, meant for the single occupant who normally lived here, but the three of them had been making it work. A dining table had been squished into one corner, though they had yet to use it. Work was a continuous affair, and they rarely had time to sit down as a group.

Toris had just opened the fridge to see what was left to eat when he felt a prickle down his spine. He straightened slowly, hand reaching for the first thing he could find. As his fingers closed around the object, he whirled, heart hammering.

"Oh, come off it," said the other nation, rolling his eyes. "What're you going to do, try to kill me with that tomato?"

Toris could only stare, eyes wide and expression bewildered. "_Britian?_" he said incredulously, dropping the tomato in his surprise. "Why're you – how did you – what the _hell_ are you doing sneaking around my house?"

The English nation straightened from his slouched position by the other entrance to the kitchen. "I would hardly call it _sneaking_," he said, sounding somewhat affronted. "I just walked in right through the front door."

_I keep _telling_ Latvia to lock it when he comes in_, Toris thought, sighing. "That still doesn't explain why you're here. Or why you didn't bother letting any of us know you were coming." He reached down to pick up the vegetable – where it had hit the floor it had gone squishy, but otherwise it was alright.

He missed the Englishman's shrug as he turned around to replace it back in the fridge. "I didn't want anyone to know I was coming," Arthur said simply. When Toris turned back to face him, the English nation had seated himself at the table. "I'm here on some… shall we say _sensitive_ business."

It must have been some kind of business, for Britian to come all the way out here for it, Toris reflected. As far as he could remember, he and Arthur had been polite but distant from one another. Their countries and affairs had always been going in different directions.

"And what business might that be?" He was getting slightly irritated, which wasn't like him, but Toris figured he was justified. Having the living daylights scared out of him was _not_ something he appreciated, sensitive business or no.

Arthur's expression was serious as he met the Baltic nation's gaze. "I need you to tell me everything that you know about Gilbert Beilschmidt and the Prussian Empire."

* * *

The Empire smiled as he turned into the alley, good eye gleaming wickedly. Did they think him stupid? Did they really _believe_ that their pathetic attempts to chase him in a certain direction had worked? If they did, then they would be sure to follow him, expecting an easy steal from a scared and pliable mortal. There was always the chance that they had figured it out, that it had been _him_ doing the leading, not them, that he had _chosen_ this place to turn and fight.

"I gave them plenty of opportunity to turn around," he murmured to himself, retreating further into the darkness. The alley wasn't long, but a sturdy brick wall rose up at the end, sealing off any easy escape. But of course, the Empire wasn't looking to escape.

_If they hadn't decided to follow me, I wouldn't have to do this_, he thought to himself, turning to face the entrance. Of course, he was sure they were armed with something considerably more deadly than the broken piece of cane he was carrying. But then, the Empire doubted they were as proficient with weapons as he was.

"This'll go a lot easier if you just do what we say, old man." That was the voice of the short one, the one the Empire had identified as the leader.

"Is that so?" he asked, shifting in the shadows. He was getting a strange sense of déjà vu, remembering another alley, one with armed guards shouting, bullets flying through the air and blood spattering across sunwarmed cobblestones –

Wrapped up in his thoughts, the Empire just barely managed to dodge the fist that came flying towards his face. He jerked back, and felt his head connect solidly with the wall. Cursing mentally, he took a few steps back. Maybe this hadn't been the best idea. He was infinitely stronger than mere humans when he was at full strength, but he wasn't _at_ full strength.

"That was a warning, old man. You know what we want, so just hand it over before someone gets hurt." The short one was leering at him in the darkness, and the Empire felt his own expression twist in response. This puny, greasy little mortal dared to threaten _him_?

"First of all," he said softly, "I'm not an _old man_. Secondly," he continued, shifting his body ever so slightly. "You really should choose your targets better. I have nothing that you could possibly want." That was true. He hadn't quite thought through his escape, and as such had only what he was carrying.

"You talking back to me? It's two against one, and we're armed, so I'd watch your mouth if I were you." The short one was unconsciously responding to the Empire's subtle movements, not realizing that the nation was manipulating him into a particular position.

"Oh, I noticed the odds," the Empire sneered, trying to ignore the pounding in the back of his head. "They're dreadfully unfair." _For you, at least_, he finished silently, smirking.

For the first time, a flicker of apprehension crossed the shorter youth's face. His tall companion had taken up a position closer to the mouth of the alley to prevent the Empire from running.

"You could leave, if you want," the Empire offered, still wearing a smirk. _Might as well give the idiot another chance._ "Take your hand off the switchblade in your pocket, and find someone else to harass."

"_You're_ threatening _me_? I could break you in half, you little bitch." And he did take his hand out of his pocket – but the telltale gleam on metal betrayed the weapon.

The Empire's own fingers tightened around the smooth wood of the cane he had been carrying. The broken end was splintered, but it was sharp. And it certainly gave him more reach than the puny knife the other was holding.

"Markus," the short one barked, eyes not leaving the Empire, "If he tries to run, stop him."

"Erik, I –"

"Just shut up and do it." Erik's tone was short, and the Empire's smirk widened. "This little bitch wants to play, so I'm going to make him bleed."

"Funny," the white haired nation said softly. "I was just thinking the same thing."

* * *

"Why do you want to know about him?" Lithuania sighed again, wondering absently if he was _ever_ going to get something to eat. Between his paperwork, talking to Felkis and now the unexpected appearance of Arthur, he hadn't had much of a chance to eat.

Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly. "Do I need a reason to ask about him?"

"You do if you sneak into my house specifically for that reason," the Baltic nation countered. He didn't like the look in the Englishman's eyes. Gilbert had been in that house with them, and for that reason, he was as good as family to Toris. And he was nothing if not protective of his family.

Arthur's eyes flickered to the side for a moment. "Well, considering his current… _predicament_… I thought it might be a good idea. To get to know who he is now, I mean."

_Oh, don't even try that_, Toris thought to himself. _I'm not a complete idiot, Arthur, whatever you might think. _He crossed his arms, shifting to lean against the counter. "Why? You were around when he was going through his Teutonic phase. Why do you need me?"

"Because you had more… personal… contact with him than I did. I had, thankfully, very few face to face encounters with him when he was a… knight." This time, to his credit, the Englishman held his gaze.

Toris snorted. "If by 'personal contact' you mean after I split from him, he tried his hardest to kill me and all of my people, then yes, I suppose I did." He shrugged. "Honestly, we might have been close as children, but we grew out of that. He spent most of his later years trying to kill me."

"That's exactly what I mean." Arthur leaned forward in his chair. "You know how to fight him."

The Baltic nation raised his eyebrows. "As much as Hungary, Austria, and most every other nation in his vicinity did. And knowing how to fight him is very different from, ah, getting to know who he is now." _You aren't getting easy answers out of me, England. I don't owe you anything._

England relaxed slightly, though there was a frustrated gleam in his eyes. "I was lead to understand that they were basically the same thing when he was at the height of his power."

Toris shrugged again. "It's true that he spent most of his young life fighting. He certainly didn't have many friends, but that doesn't mean he was the same off the battlefield as he was on it."

"Ah, so he only had a few close friends that he could turn to?"

_Damn. _Toris frowned. "I assume he did. I was busy trying to build my own life, and wasn't paying much attention to his."

"So he wouldn't come here, then." England was nodding to himself. "And Austria is living with Germany at the moment, so it can't be him…"

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Despite his usual mild mannered attitude, Toris's voice had a sharp edge. Decades of living with Ivan had hardened him considerably.

"It's nothing that should concern you," the Englishman said dismissively. "After all, you're busy trying to rebuild your life. Gilbert Beilschmidt's problems shouldn't be your concern."

Lithuania grit his teeth so hard he thought he heard a few crack. "His problems are mine since you condemned him to live in the same hell-hole as me, _Arthur Kirkland_. Everything that's happened to him is in part _thanks to you_, so don't you go telling me what should and shouldn't be my concern." Somehow, he managed to keep his voice from rising into a shout.

"I know it's partially my fault," the Englishman said, eyes flicking to glance at the floor this time. "Which is why I'm going to make this right before anyone else gets hurt. Minimize the casualties, as it were."

"He's not with Germany anymore." It wasn't a question. Toris hadn't had much time to keep up with what was going on with Gilbert, but he _did_ remember getting a brusque note from Ludwig, letting him know that the white haired man had gotten home safely. Toris had responded, promising to stop by soon, but somehow he hadn't managed to find the time.

England shook his head. "No. Matthew told Alfred that he… left. Smashed out a second story window. Apparently he wasn't as weak as he had been leading everyone to believe."

That sounded like something Gilbert would come up with. He would have hated it, Toris knew, pretending to be helpless, but it had given him a chance to get away. "Is _that_ why you want to how to fight him?" The realization hit home abruptly.

"I'm going to fix this," England said softly. "He cannot be allowed to exist as the Prussian Empire. We just barely survived the World Wars, and the Cold War pushed us to the limit. The Empire is a creature of violence and war, that much I know. This world won't survive another conflict. And if he's allowed to run amok –"

"That doesn't give you the right to kill him," Toris said flatly. "He's only been back for a few months. That's hardly enough time to decide if he'll snap out of it or not."

"It's been _years_, Lithuania," Arthur said, voice equally as flat. "And he's shown no sign of coming back. Even if he did… who's to say he wouldn't start something else?"

"What's to say _I_ won't start a war tomorrow?" Lithuania pushed off the counter, uncrossing his arms. "You're just looking for an excuse to erase a reminder of your guilt, and you're using a _temporary condition_ as an excuse."

"Regardless. He's a danger to everyone around him, and you and I both know who he's going to go after first. The world can't handle that, not right now." England pushed his chair back, standing.

"I won't help you," Lithuania said, gaze steady. "He's my family now, Arthur, and he's been through enough. You have no right to look at him, let alone the right to decide that he's beyond saving."

Arthur's smile was humorless. "You know, that's what Francis told me. He won't help me either, not anymore. I didn't bother asking Spain or Austria, because I know where their loyalties are."

"Well, now you know where mine are as well." Toris's eyes narrowed, but his gaze didn't waver. "I'll do everything I can to stop you, you know. You might have kept this plan from Germany until now, but –"

Arthur sighed. "I came here because I thought _you_ of all people, Toris, would understand the consequences of letting this go on. The world just survived one Soviet Russia. It doesn't need a second one."

"Those two are _nothing_ alike," Lithuania said, anger stirring in his gut. That was crossing a line. "Don't even try to compare –"

"What do you think is going to happen when the Empire destroys the threat Ivan represents to him? Did you think he would just step back and let other nations rise or take over that land? The Prussian Empire's goal was expansion, _always_ expansion. And he won't stop at Russia, once he has it. He'll come knocking on your door next, and then you'll be right back where you just escaped from."

"He wouldn't –" Despite the anger England's words were fueling, Toris found himself rooted to the floor.

"What, do you think he'll have sympathy for you?" Arthur was walking towards him. "That he'll be a _compassionate_ master? Need I remind you that he's trapped in his head at a time when the two of you are _enemies_? He'll grind you into the dirt, Toris, and your so called family right along with you." England was right in his face now, eyes dark. "You and I both know that the Russian has morals buried deep down inside. He loved his little pet family. He liked pretending that you were all friends. Ivan could have dissolved you, but he didn't." Arthur leaned forward to speak directly into Toris's ear. "But the Empire never had much use for friends or family, now did he?"

The Englishman drew away, expression grim. He moved back to the table, pushing his chair back in, as if he had never sat at the table. He straightened the collar of his shirt, and glanced back at Toris, who was staring at him with a mixture of anger and fear.

"Think on that, Lithuania," England said, pausing on his way out of the kitchen. "If the rest of your family and the new life you could build together is worth sacrificing to protect a madman."

* * *

_Move, move, move!_

Every instinct was screaming at him to run, but Markus found that his feet were rooted firmly to the ground, every muscle tense and immobile. His wide eyes couldn't look away from the scene unfolding in the alley before him. Some part of him hoped that a passerby would see what was happening and call the police, but of course they had chosen this neighborhood precisely because it was largely empty at night.

It had started off all right. Sure, their target wasn't as old or weak as they had previously assumed, but he hadn't appeared to be armed either. Erik had managed to cut his face straight off, a slice that cut right through the vicious scar already covering the white haired man's face.

The man had sliced his partner right back, moving faster in the small space than seemed humanely possible. Even worse, he kept doing it; waiting until Erik got a strike in, and then mimicking it. Every time he moved, it was fluid and deliberate, and he _always_ hit the first time.

Their own target was toying with them.

"You're pathetic," the white haired man was saying casually, not even winded. "And you're actually _trying_, which makes it even sadder." His words were accompanied by a soft laugh.

"Just… just _shut up_," Erik panted, sweat running down his temples. Markus could tell he wouldn't last much longer. "I'm… just… getting _started_."

"Ah, well, there's a problem." The target laughed again, grin wide despite the blood running down his face. "Because I'm getting bored with you."

"What's that –"

Markus winced, eyes growing even wider as his partner's words were cut off by a wet sounding gurgle. The white haired man had moved with another burst of his frightening speed, and was using… _something_… to…

"Erik?" his voice was soft as he stared at the scene before him: his partner pinned against the wall, limbs twitching slightly. The target leaning on something that was protruding from the would-be thief's neck, twisting –

_Oh god, oh god, oh god…_

The man pulled back, a slight squelching sound echoing strangely in the confined space. Markus watched as his partner slumped against the wall, sliding bonelessly to the ground with another pathetic sounding gurgle. The man kicked at the shape absently, snorting.

"A nation is only as strong as it's people," he muttered, more to himself than to Markus, but the alley was quiet now, and the words carried. "You were a waste of a human being. Unnecessary. Your absence will strengthen the rest."

_What the hell is wrong with this guy?_ He tried telling his feet to turn around and run – he was close enough to the street that he just might make it, no matter how fast this stranger was. But his blood seemed to have frozen in his veins, and no matter how much his body wanted to turn and flee, he couldn't move.

In the alley, the white haired man turned to face the entrance. In the faint light coming from the street, Markus could see that his eyes were a dark, clouded red. The man took a step forward, blood gliding silently down his cheek from a cut, head tilted slightly. All at once the paralysis that had held Markus in place seemed to shatter. The young man let out a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a scream, and whirled on his heels.

He had just managed to step onto the sidewalk when he felt a hand lock onto his collar and yank him sharply back into the darkness of the alley. He tried to make a sound, but something hard and… _wet_?... pressed against his lips. Markus tried to see what it was, but the white haired man was barely an inch away, eyes boring into his. Only one was red, Markus realized absently. The other was a vibrant shade of purple.

"… Brandenburg?" the man's voice was filled with surprise. "What the hell are you doing here?" The thing pressed against his lips was lifted slightly.

Markus blinked, wondering who the hell this madman thought he was. "… Um…" His voice was little more than a whisper. He automatically licked his lips – and nearly retched as he tasted blood.

"I heard that nations could come back, sometimes." There was a funny note in his voice, and Markus couldn't tell whether it was a good thing or not. "I _would_ like to know why you were wandering around with that piece of shit." The white haired man sighed, rolling his eyes. "But then again, I suppose that's your business. You always were a private bastard, weren't you? I suppose dissolution hasn't much changed that."

_ Agree with him._ Markus twitched, eyes still impossibly wide, as a voice sounded in his head. Had he finally gone over the deep end? Of all the times to start hearing voices… The man holding onto his collar raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly waiting for a response.

"Er… yeah," Markus said, voice shaky. Even if he was going crazy, it didn't seem like a bad idea. "It… it hasn't." _Good_. This time he had to physically restrain himself from turning his head at the sound.

"I think it's addled your brain a bit, though." The man grinned all of a sudden, the motion opening the cut on his face further. He didn't seem aware of the blood that was running down his cheek and neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. "Not to mention your face. You're certainly uglier than I remember." He let go and stepped back a few feet.

This time Markus waited for the voice to tell him what to do. _Laugh_, it said. _Act like this is normal. Tell him that he's as hideous as he's always been. _The youth's eyes grew even rounder, if possible. He should tell this lunatic _what_? Wouldn't that just set him off again?

_Just do it, _the voice insisted. _It'll work, trust me._

Every instinct was still telling him to run now that there was space between them, he repeated what the voice had told him to say. To his credit, his voice only shook slightly. The man in front of him didn't seem to notice.

_Tell him that you have to go. You were just making sure he hadn't gotten soft since you left. Give him a bow, and wait for him to leave._

This took a bit of nerve, seeing as it required that Markus take his eyes off the white haired man, but he did it. Listening to the voice hadn't gotten him killed yet, and he _really_ didn't want to end up like Erik, lying further back in the alley, silent now. At his words, the white haired man rolled his eyes again.

"Like I'd let myself get soft. You give yourself too much credit, Mark." He grinned again. "If anything, _you're_ the one who was always advocating mercy." The white haired man shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "Whatever. I've got my own things to finish. You go get back to being dead, _ja_?" He gave Markus a casual salute, before clapping a hand on his shoulder and pulling him into a loose embrace. "It was nice talking to you again, Mark," he said into the young man's ear, voice low. "But next time try actually showing up. Using this snotty brat as your mouthpiece is nothing short of pathetic."

Markus felt his entire body stiffen. What the hell was that supposed to mean? The embrace tightened slightly, and he felt something sharp jabbing pointedly into his ribs. The white haired man drew back, expression still set in that faintly maniacal grin.

"Remember this, you worthless human. I am _allowing_ you to live. I could snap your neck right here, and I promise, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. You will tell no one of what happened here. You will forget me, and Brandenburg." The man's fist was suddenly curled into his collar again, dragging their faces close. "And you will _make_ something of your life, or I _will come for you again._"

Markus staggered back into the wall as the stranger let go of him. Without a backward glance, the white haired man stalked out of the alley, disappearing around the corner.

"What… what just _happened_?" Markus mumbled to himself, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. If he let his gaze wander, he knew it would fall on the shape crumpled in the back of the alley, and he didn't want to see.

_I believe I just saved your life, boy._ The voice again, sounding somewhat amused.

"Who the hell are _you_?" he said into the quiet of the alley, part of him wondering why the hell he was _answering_ the voice that was in his head. "You can't be real," he said firmly, when there was no reply for a few moments.

There was a chuckle. _If it's easier for you to think that, go ahead. Though a thank you would be nice. I _could_ have let him gut you. That's what he wanted to do, you know. _The voice sounded almost sad._ It's what he _always_ did to people that annoyed him. Your friend was the lucky one._

Markus shuddered. The voice was getting fainter as it spoke, and he shook his head, as if to dislodge it. "I'm dreaming," he mumbled. "I _must_ be dreaming. This can't be real."

_Ah well, I wasn't expecting one anyway. I'd get moving, if I were you. Don't want to be found here in the morning. Rest assured, you are entirely sane. You won't be hearing from me again._

He barely caught the last part of that sentence, but he had to admit that the voice was right. Still keeping his eyes fixed in front of him, Markus levered himself off the ground, still shaking. "But… but who _are_ you?" he asked once he was standing. He took a careful step towards the entrance of the alley, and then another one.

Another chuckle that sounded almost like the wind. _I'm what's left of the March of Brandenburg. Mark __Schäfer, very briefly at your service. _

* * *

The Empire made it several blocks, before his body remembered that he had cracked his head against a brick wall none too gently. The world swam before his eyes, head pounding insistently to remind him of this fact.

"Shit," the Empire muttered to himself, bringing a hand up to touch the back of his head. It throbbed painfully on contact, and the nation cursed again. This was _not_ what he needed right now. His strength was already depleted, and though bursts of adrenaline had been keeping him going, there was only so far that he could go. Since escaping the house they had been keeping him in, the Empire hadn't stopped walking. He wasn't sure how long it had been exactly, but at least a night had gone by.

His head throbbed again, and the Empire groaned, hand reaching out to blindly grasp the first object it came to. His fingers met with the smooth wood of a bench; one of the sort that seemed to appear every few blocks here. The Empire stared at it for a moment, before sitting down with a faint huff. He hated feeling weak, but there was no sense in pushing himself to the point of collapse. He would just close his eyes for a moment, and then keep going…

_"You're too eager! Stop dropping your guard when you attack, _dummkopf_." An older man frowned at the child who had fallen to the ground, panting. A thin cut was on his cheek, blood welling at its surface. A sword was lying where it had fallen when the child had been disarmed._

_ "Sorry, sir," the white haired boy on the ground said, scrambling to his feet. When he stood, it was clear that he wasn't much older than eight or nine, but already faint scars were visible on his bare arms. "I'll remember."_

_ The older man snorted, sheathing his own sword at his hip. "I should hope so. You're a disgrace to your country the way you fight now, Prussia." He turned smartly on one heel and started out of the clearing. "Same time tomorrow. Don't be late. And perhaps _try_ to retain what I've taught you."_

_ "Yes sir." _

_ It was only when his instructor was gone that the young boy retrieved his sword, tilting it so the blade caught the sunlight coming through the trees. The clearing had been made specifically for this; it was far enough from the castle that the distractions of everyday living were muted. The boy scrubbed absently at his cheek to wipe away the blood. He entertained the idea of leaving, but the scornful look of his instructor came back to him. _

_ "Maybe I should just practice…" he mumbled to himself, sliding into a ready stance, imagining the enemies surrounding him, each wearing the face of his teacher, each uglier than the last…_

_ The sunlight was disappearing and the sword heavy in his hands by the time the young nation finally cut down the last of his foes. Pushing his sweaty bangs out of his face, he sheathed his sword. His muscles were already starting to ache, but it was a long way back, and if the sun was already going down…_

"_Hey."_

_ The unfamiliar voice made him whirl, sword out and ready before he'd really thought about it. His red eyes met a curious pair of hazel, staring at him from across the clearing. The other boy was leaning casually against a tree, but pushed himself away when Prussia spotted him._

_ "Who're you?" the white haired nation demanded, eyes narrowing. "What're you doing here?"_

_ The other boy shrugged. "I'm Hungary," he said simply. "And I didn't think anyone else was here, until I found you. Kind of deep in the woods to be playing with swords, isn't it?"_

_ The Prussian blinked, straightening out of his stance slightly. Another nation? He hadn't seen many besides himself. "I'm not… playing." The word was unfamiliar. "I'm training."_

_ Hungary moved a bit closer. "D'you want to put that away? I'm not going to hurt you."_

_ "As if you could," Prussia replied, snorting. He put the blade away after a moment of hesitation. His king was always telling him that other nations would seek to crush him the instant they saw him; that was why he was learning to become a fighter._

_ "So, what's your name, then?" the brown haired boy asked, grinning. There was a smudge of dirt across his face, as if he had done a face-plant at some point during his forest wandering._

_ "Me? I'm Prussia. Soon to be the Empire of Prussia, once I get strong enough." He puffed out his thin chest, trying to look impressive._

_ Hungary only laughed. "Pah. Never heard of you."_

_ That took some of the wind out of his sails. "Never?" _

_Hungary shook his head. "Nope."_

"_Oh." Prussia grimaced, somewhat put out, but then shrugged it off. "Well, you will one day. I'll be the strongest nation in the world."_

_ "_Second_ strongest nation," the brunette said. "Because _I'm_ going to be the strongest! I'll be the Empire of Hungary!"_

_ "Not if you spend all you time running around the woods, you won't," Prussia said, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. "You need to get stronger, and to get stronger you need to train. Discipline needs to be a part of your life. What?"_

_ Hungary was staring at him as if he had sprouted a second head. "You're a _serious_ little weirdo. Don't you ever relax?"_

_ It was Prussia's turn to stare. "_Relax_?" He spoke the word like it was poison. "I don't have _time_ to relax. I need to train, become a better warrior. It's what my people expect of me."_

_ "Then your people are a bunch of serious weirdos too," the other nation said decisively._

_ Prussia had half drawn his sword before he had thought about it. "My people have had to fight for the right to exist from the start, and I'll gut anyone who tries –"_

_ "Whoa, whoa, calm down!" Hungary had shifted his stance slightly; ready to dodge if the white haired nation should try attacking. "It was just a joke, I didn't mean anything by it!"_

_ "Oh." Prussia blinked, and took his hand off his sword._

_ Something about the other boy seemed to change. A weird expression crossed his face for a moment, but Prussia couldn't place it. "My people have had a pretty hard life too," Hungary said eventually. "But…" His words trailed off, and then he seemed to shake himself. "Hey, you want to come exploring with me? There's a river not too far from here!"_

_ Prussia glanced back at the wooded path that lead back to the castle. "I don't know if I can," he said slowly. It was already getting dark, and they might be expecting him back…_

_ He twitched violently as Hungary grabbed him by the wrist, and had to physically restrain himself from reaching for a weapon. Narrow, suspicious red eyes stared into hazel, looking for some hint of an ulterior motive. He had been taught to trust no one, especially those who acted friendly. It was just a mask, and they would crush him sooner or later._

_ "Come on," Hungary wheedled, looking earnest. "We won't be long, if that's what you're worried about. You'll be back before you're missed."_

_ "I'm not _worried_," Prussia snapped, pride stung. He doubted if anyone had missed him anyway; it wasn't unusual for him to be gone late into the night training. It was practically expected of him. "I just don't trust you, is all."_

_ "You don't need to trust me," the other boy said. "That happens over time. You just need to have fun!"_

_ "…Fun?" Prussia repeated the word slowly, confusion evident on his face._

_ The other boy was wearing that _look_ again, and Prussia decided that he didn't like it. He didn't have much time to dwell on it, though, as Hungary started off, practically yanking his arm out of his socket in the process, jabbering about something…_

_ … "Shit, shit, _shit_," the teenaged nation hissed, pressing his head further back into the tree behind him. The rough bark dug into his skull, but he didn't even register that pain compared to the agony radiating up from his mid section. One arm was curled protectively around his stomach and his free hand was locked in a death grip around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white._

_ Despite his best efforts, blood was steadily soaking through his white uniform. The worst of it was concentrated around his middle; already half of his tabard was stained a red so dark it was almost black. It was running down his leg as well, from several smaller wounds, but what was most worrying about _that_ was way his ankle was throbbing. Every time he had tried to put weight on it, spikes of agony had driven into his brain. Of course, that had been before he collapsed here, so his inability to stand was rather a moot point at this moment._

_ "Oh… you've done it this time… Prussia," he muttered through gritted teeth. He couldn't even move his arm to bandage up his side; any movement would rip open whatever clotting had happened, and then he would probably faint from bloodloss, and that was the _last_ Gott-damned thing he needed right now. _

_ "Prussia?" His head whipped around as he heard his name. Red eyes frantically scanned the thick forest around him, trying to find the source. If it was an enemy, he at least wanted to know where the attack would be coming from…_

_ And he was a sitting duck here, he knew. Clenching his jaw so tightly he thought it would crack, the white haired nation shifted as quietly as he could. Using his free elbow, he started to lever himself into a sitting position. From there, biting his tongue the entire time, he wedged his bad ankle securely between a few gnarled roots. He struggled into a half-kneeling position; at least he would have a decent chance of getting enough force to get off one decent surprise attack before he was killed…_

_ "_Prussia_!" A face appeared through the trees, hazel eyes wide with worry. Hungary pushed his way through the undergrowth, heedless of the leaves that caught in his hair. Horror shortly replaced the worry. "Prussia, what the hell happened to you?"_

_ The white haired nation spat out blood and bared his teeth. "Put your… sword and bow… down," he hissed, sweat running down his face._

_ "Prussia, I'm not going to hurt you! Seriously, I was hunting, and I heard you'd gotten into a battle…" Despite his words, Hungary unslung the bow from his back, and carefully unsheathed the short sword at his hip, placing it deliberately on the ground._

_ "Damn… border skirmish… I won, though." Prussia hissed again, wincing at the pain of simply speaking. "Y'should see… y'should see… the…" _

_ His eyes rolled up in his head, and he never finished his sentence, collapsing face first into the dust._

_ When he came too, he was lying on his back, staring up at a darkened forest. Groaning, Prussia turned his head slightly, eyes fixing on the small fire next to him. He noticed that his sword wasn't at his hip, or even at his side as it would be if he were sleeping. With a hiss, he tried to sit up, only to find a pair of hands on his shoulders, pressing him into the ground._

_ "You're going to ruin all my hard work, idiot," said a familiar voice. Prussia looked up to see Hungary glaring sternly down at him. "Just lie there and shut up. The soup's almost done."_

_ Ah, so _that_ was what that smell was. Prussia sighed, and allowed his body to relax slightly. "How long… has it been?" His throat felt dry._

_ "'Bout a day and a half. I had to cauterize a few of your wounds, and you _did_ wake up while I was doing it, but I guess you don't remember. You screamed like a baby, I'll have you know." Hungary laughed, the sound swallowed up by the immenseness of the forest around them._

_ "_You_ try getting nearly cut in half, and we'll see how _you_ react," Prussia muttered, turning his head to stare into the fire. "Bet you'd cry, like the sissy you are."_

_ "Watch it, or this sissy _is_ going to cut you in half. You'd still be unconscious and bleeding if it weren't for me." The fire sizzled, and Prussia caught sight of Hungary pulling something out of the flames as a rank smell filled the air. "Shit," he heard a moment later. "Soup's burnt."_

_ "How'd you manage to burn _soup_?" Prussia taunted, ignoring the sharp twinges that were started to come from his side. Oh, it was going to _hurt_ in a few minutes. There was silence for a long moment. "Why're you doing this, anyway?" Prussia asked suddenly, trying to see beyond the fire to figure out where Hungary had gone._

_ The other nation appeared above him all of a sudden, a strange look on his face. "Do you need to ask? You might be a thickheaded, arrogant idiot who gets on all my nerves, but we're friends. And friends help each other, no matter how much certain individuals might deserve every injury they got. Border skirmish my ass. You just wanted to antagonize someone, didn't you?"_

_ Prussia rolled his eyes, not denying the fact. A moment later, a small smile appeared on his face. "Friends," he said, suddenly not missing the sword at his side as much as he might have. "I like sound of that…"_

The Empire's eyes flickered open, only for the nation to realize that the sky had gotten significantly lighter since he had nodded off. Scowling at the wasted time and at his own weakness for having fallen asleep, the white haired man practically jumped off of the bench –

Only to find his head was still pounding ferociously. All of a sudden, the bench seemed much more inviting than it had, and the Empire sat back down. This was _not_ what he needed right now.

"I can't face Braginski like this," he mumbled to himself, hating the realization even as he saw the logic in it. He might have been impulsive, but he wasn't stupid. His body might not have been as weak as he had been leading everyone at that house to believe, but it was a far cry from what he was like at full strength. Ten years of running and slowly starving himself behind that Wall had taken their toll.

But it wasn't as if he had a variety of options available to him. He would die before he went back to that house. The Empire had no idea where Francis might be now, and he had precious few other allies that he could go to. There had been no sign of the dwelling that he _remembered_ living in; only this endless parade of strange looking houses that for some reason seemed perfectly normal to him.

_There's one person you could go to._

His head jerked around at the voice in his head, the rapid movement only making his headache worse. The Empire's red eyes scanned the empty street. It had been in his head, then? But it hadn't been _his_ thought, and where else would it have come from if not –

Ah.

His scowl only deepened. That other presence, the one he could feel in the back of his head even now, stirring restlessly. The presence that had taken over _his_ body when that awful despair had washed over him without warning. It had been there since he could remember awakening in this strange place. It had been a shivering, broken thing then, barely there at all. It hadn't shown any sense of awareness for nearly ten years, so what was causing this sudden change?

"Come on then," he growled out loud. "Stop hiding back there and show yourself, why don't you?"

There was no response. The presence was still there, but it felt no different. Perhaps it hadn't said anything? The Empire muttered something vulgar. This was too complicated to be thinking about now, not to mention that it was making his headache even worse. Regardless of where the thought had come from, it _was_ a valid point.

The Empire made a face. Well, it _would_ be nice to see Hungary again, he had to admit. It felt like ages since he had seen the nation last, and it would be nice to see a familiar face whom he actually considered friendly. Roderich had been his only lifeline in that house full of strangers he couldn't understand, but whatever had diseased the Austrian's brain to the point where he thought they were actually on good terms had _not_ gotten to him.

Snorting, the Empire stood again, this time being more careful about the movement. For a long moment he stood, red eyes narrowed, facing where Russia would be if he continued on. The anger that had been coiled deep in his heart since that bastard had cornered him in that cell all those years ago rose up, burning in his throat.

"I will come for you," he promised, wishing the wind would carry his words so that Ivan Braginski might hear them. "You and I have some unfinished business."

For a moment all he wanted to do was to continue walking, straight to the Russian's house, but after a long hesitation, the Empire turned slightly, and began walking in a slightly different direction. He pushed the anger back down; not to extinguish it, but to nurture and feed the fire. By the time he was physically ready to face the Russian, there would be no stopping him.

"On the bright side," the Empire muttered, drawing his jacket tighter around his thin frame, "this way I can bypass that Polish freak's nation entirely."

* * *

In the silence, the nation stirred, eyes almost luminous in the darkness as they flickered open. There was the soft clunk of a glass bottle hitting the floor, but the Russian hardly seemed to notice. One hand, the bones slightly more pronounced than usual, reached up to touch the left side of his chest.

"Oh, such _anger_," he whispered, voice sounding cracked and dry. "Such _hatred_ you have within you, Empire." The Russian let out a rasping chuckle. "It's been a long time since the world has known something like you…"

The bedframe groaned under him as Ivan pushed himself into a sitting position. A pause, and then he levered himself to his feet, boots clunking heavily on the weakening floorboards. He figured it would only be a few months before the second level floors would begin caving in if he walked on them. Though the nations that he had adopted over the course of the last half-century were not by any means entirely independent, the rot had already started, and his house was reflecting that.

But for the moment, Ivan had little concern for collapsing floors and the empire that was crumbling around him. He made his way painstakingly downstairs, avoiding the steps that already had holes through carpet and wood. The physical exercise was somewhat difficult, though that wasn't too surprising. A diet of vodka and whatever he happened to feel like eating, which wasn't ever much, did not promote a healthy form.

Finally he made it to the door, and slowly pushed it open. The heavy thing groaned in protest, its hinges having gone untended for some time. Drawing his scarf about his neck tighter, the fingers over his heart digging into his jacket, Ivan faced the direction in which Germany lay. He was heedless that, across the many miles, a pair of mismatched eyes were staring straight back in his direction.

"I'm waiting for you, Empire," Ivan said, voice little more than a whisper against the cold spring wing that had started blowing. A smile curved his lips for a moment, and he leaned his head gently against the doorframe, hand clenching protectively over his heart. "I know you'll come home. You still belong to me, after all."

* * *

The Baltic nation let out a sigh, letting his head fall into his hands. It had been a completely sleepless handful of nights for him since England's visit, the other nation's words till ringing in his ears.

"_Think on that. __If the rest of your family and the new life you could build together is worth sacrificing to protect a madman."_

He hadn't seen Gilbert in years, but Toris had not forgotten his last encounter with what the white haired nation had become. He could still clearly recall that bloodstained figure coming up the steps, the red eyes that had stared into his without a flicker of humanity. _He_ remembered the Empire. Remembered what Gilbert's people had turned him into during their quest for expansion and their seemingly insatiable desire to fight.

"He _was_ a madman," the Baltic nation murmured, running his hands through his hair. "Not a madman of his own choosing, but _still_…" Gilbert had eventually returned to an approximation of normal; his people had settled down, and he had slowly slipped out of the long bloodlust that had consumed him. But he had been different; there had always been a shadow of the Empire lurking within him. Everyone who had known him during that time had at some point feared that he would return –

"That he would return to being _this_." Lithuania finished the thought aloud, groaning. This was too difficult. He couldn't sacrifice his whole family over one nation, but that one nation was also family. "What's to say England's even right?" he asked his empty office, as if it would supply answers. "He may not even go after Ivan!"

He had argued this to himself for hours already. Even Toris knew the chances of the Empire _not_ going after the Russian were about as great as a snowball's chance at the centre of the sun. And of course, with the USSR slowly falling to pieces around Ivan… if the Empire recovered quickly enough from his time behind the Wall… it would be simple for him to take over. He had been created to fight; and while many of the older nations had been the same way, most of them had forgotten what that was like. Not to mention the world was still reeling from the disasters of this century, which would leave it completely unprepared to deal with something on the scale that the Empire could create –

_Brrring._

The sound of the phone going off was something of a relief to the stressed nation. Finally, he could put this aside for a few moments and deal with the administration of his own country, or chat with Felkis for a few minutes…

"Hello?" Toris leaned back in his chair as he picked up the phone. His eyebrows rose as he heard the other voice on the line. "This is… unexpected," he said eventually. "No, no, I'm not in the middle of anything." He paused. "No, there isn't anyone else here. Honestly, what's all this secrecy about?"

A few moments later, and he was no longer relaxing back in his chair. Toris was sitting bolt upright, surprise written across his face.

"You _found _him?" he asked, tone incredulous. "How on earth did you manage that – what do you mean it's not important?" Toris chewed absently on a thumbnail. "Well, have you called Ludwig or Roderich – no, of course you haven't. That would just complicate things, wouldn't it?"

Lithuania listened into the phone for a few more minutes, the surprise slowly fading from his features. "Well, you seemed pretty confident about what to do last time we spoke," he said slowly, wincing as he bit too deeply into his nail. What was said next made his eyes widen again, and his grip on the phone became tighter.

"He's _what_? You can't be serious." Another pause. "No. I know. I just… didn't think it would happen so quickly." His bleeding thumb was all but forgotten, and the Baltic nation let out a long sigh. "I haven't _stopped_ thinking about it, actually," he said at last. "No. No, they're like my younger brothers. They need to be protected from this. They're just getting back on their feet after… well, you know."

A strange feeling was developing in his gut, and all of a sudden, the sleepless nights seemed pointless. He knew what to do; had known it all along.

"I know," Toris murmured, the strange feeling in his stomach growing heavy. "Alright. I'll help you."

Long after he had hung up the phone, Lithuania sat in his dark office, feeling the silence around him. The silence of peace and healing. His brothers would probably be asleep by now. There were still nightmares, of course, and moments of waking up in cold sweats and expecting to see the Russian around every corner, but given enough time, that too would heal.

And as he stood, quietly rearranging his papers so as not to disturb that fragile silence and knowing he was headed for another sleepless night, Toris wondered if he had done the right thing.

* * *

**_A/N:_** _Aka the chapter that is not only out pretty quickly and whose title is too long to squish into the drop-down menu, but where things actually start happening!_

_So, this is my gift to you guys who have stuck with this story since the beginning, even when I took forever to update. This chapter is dedicated to **you**. That's right, you, the person reading this right now. You decided to read this fanfic for whatever reason, and you've stuck with it until this latest author note. You're fantastic, and I'm flattered that you like what I write enough to stick with it. If it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't be writing this._

_I know this'll come up, so..._**_ Why can The Empire understand the two supposedly German kids? _**_'Cause they're not speaking German. They're part of the generation that grew up behind the Wall, and as such (in my historically inaccurate fanfic, anyway) have also grown up speaking Russian._

_A note on Brandenburg - I'm taking some liberties on how deceased nations can communicate. I know Rome actually shows up, but he's a flashy sort of guy. I imagine Mark is just being more subtle, and also attempting to keep our dear Empire from killing someone else. (Markus won't be back, by the way. He and his short lived friend were merely handy plot fodder.)_

_There was a happy moment or two in this chapter! It's been so long, I almost forgot how to write one! I also tried to cut down on my use of dashes... and I think I did pretty well!_

_The Empire **will**, in the present, know that Hungary is a girl. I'm sort of... ignoring parts of the anime, and making it so that Prussia figured it out later than he did in the canon, so that's why I'm still using "he" as a pronoun for Hungary in that last flashback._

_So... a few new faces, a few old. No Germany or Austria this chapter, but they'll be back!_

_If you've read, please review!_

_Pheleon._


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